At the instigation of the wizard Ismeno, Aladine, king of Jerusalem, stole an image of the Virgin from the temple of the Christians and put it in his mosque in order to render the city impregnable. When morning dawned the image was gone, and no search could reveal any clue to the theft.
In every temple, hermitage, and hall,A long and eager search the monarch made,And tortures or rewards decreed to allWho screened the guilty, or the guilt betrayed;Nor ceased the Sorcerer to employ in aidOf the inquiry all his arts, but stillWithout success; for whether Heaven conveyedThe prize away, or power of human will,Heaven close the secret kept, and shamed his vaunted skill.But when the king found all expedients vainTo trace th' offender, then, beyond disguise,Flamed forth his hatred to the Christians; then,Fed by wild jealousies and sharp surmise,Immoderate fury sparkled in his eyes;Follow what may, he will revenge the deed,And wreak his rage: "Our wrath shall not," he cries,"Fall void, but root up all th' accursed seed;Thus in the general doom the guilty yet shall bleed!"So that he 'scapes not, let the guiltless die!But wherefore thus of guiltlessness debate?Each guilty is, nor 'mongst them all know IOne, well-affected to the faith and state;And what if some be unparticipateIn this new crime, new punishment shall payFor old misdeeds; why longer do ye wait,My faithful Mussulmans? up! up! away!Hence with the torch and sword: seize, fire, lay waste, and slay!"Thus to the crowd he spake, the mandate flew,And in the bosoms of the Faithful shedAstonishment and stupor; stupor threwOn every face the paleness of the dead;None dared, none sought to make defence; none fled,None used entreaty, none excuse; but thereThey stood, like marble monuments of dread,Irresolute,—but Heaven conceived their prayer,And whence they least had hope, brought hope to their despair.Of generous thoughts and principles sublimeAmongst them in the city lived a maid,The flower of virgins in her ripest prime,Supremely beautiful! but that she madeNever her care, or beauty only weighedIn worth with virtue; and her worth acquiredA deeper charm from blooming in the shade;Lovers she shunned, nor loved to be admired,But from their praises turned, and lived a life retired.Yet could not this coy secrecy preventTh' admiring gaze and warm desires of oneTutored by Love, nor yet would Love consentTo hide such lustrous beauty from the sun;Love! that through every change delight'st to run,The Proteus of the heart I who now dost blind,Now roll the Argus eyes that nought can shun!Thou through a thousand guards unseen dost wind,And to the chastest maids familiar access find.Sophronia hers, Olindo was his name;Born in one town, by one pure faith illumed;Modest—as she was beautiful, his flameFeared much, hoped little, and in nought presumed;He could not, or he durst not speak, but doomedTo voiceless thought his passion; him she slighted,Saw not, or would not see; thus he consumedBeneath the vivid fire her beauty lighted;Either not seen ill known, or, known, but ill requited.And thus it was, when like an omen drearThat summoned all her kindred to the grave,The cruel mandate reached Sophronia's ear,Who, brave as bashful, yet discreet as brave,Mused how her people she from death might save;Courage inspired, but virginal alarmRepressed the thought, till maiden shyness gavePlace to resolve, or joined to share the harm;Boldness awoke her shame, shame made her boldness charm.Alone amidst the crowd the maid proceeds,Nor seeks to hide her beauty, nor display;Downcast her eyes, close veiled in simple weeds,With coy and graceful steps she wins her way:So negligently neat, one scarce can sayIf she her charms disdains, or would improve,—If chance or taste disposes her array;Neglects like hers, if artifices, proveArts of the friendly Heavens, of Nature, and of Love.All, as she passed unheeding, all, admireThe noble maid; before the king she stood;Not for his angry frown did she retire,But his indignant aspect coolly viewed:"To give,"—she said, "but calm thy wrathful mood,And check the tide of slaughter in its spring,—To give account of that thou hast pursuedSo long in vain, seek I thy face, O king!The urged offence I own, the doomed offender bring!"The modest warmth, the unexpected lightOf high and holy beauty, for a spaceO'erpowered him,—conquered of his fell despite,He stood, and of all fierceness lost the trace.Were his a spirit, or were hers a faceOf less severity, the sweet surpriseHad melted him to love; but stubborn graceSubdues not stubborn pride; Love's potent tiesAre flattering fond regards, kind looks, and smiling eyes.If 't were not Love that touched his flinty soul,Desire it was, 't was wonder, 't was delight:"Safe be thy race!" he said, "reveal the whole,And not a sword shall on thy people light."Then she: "The guilty is before thy sight,—The pious robbery was my deed; these handsBore the blest Image from its cell by night;The criminal thou seek'st before thee stands,—Justice from none but me her penalty demands."Thus she prepares a public death to meet,A people's ransom at a tyrant's shrine:Oh glorious falsehood! beautiful deceit!Can Truth's own light thy loveliness outshine?To her bold speech misdoubting AladineWith unaccustomed temper calm replied:"If so it were, who planned the rash design,Advised thee to it, or became thy guide?Say, with thyself who else his ill-timed zeal allied?""Of this my glory not the slightest partWould I," said she, "with one confederate share;I needed no adviser; my full heartAlone sufficed to counsel, guide and dare.""If so," he cried, "then none but thou must bearThe weight of my resentment, and atoneFor the misdeed." "Since it has been my care,"She said, "the glory to enjoy alone,'T is just none share the pain; it should be all mine own."To this the tyrant, now incensed, returned,"Where rests the Image?" and his face becameDark with resentment: she replied, "I burnedThe holy Image in the holy flame,And deemed it glory; thus at least no shameCan e'er again profane it—it is freeFrom farther violation: dost thou claimThe spoil or spoiler? this behold in me;But that, whilst time rolls round, thou never more shall see."Albeit no spoiler I; it was no wrongTo repossess what was by force obtained:"At this the tyrant loosed his threatening tongue,Long-stifled passion raging unrestrained:No longer hope that pardon may be gained,Beautiful face, high spirit, bashful heart!Vainly would Love, since mercy is disdained,And Anger flings his most envenomed dart,In aid of you his else protecting shield impart!Doomed in tormenting fire to die, they layHands on the maid; her arms with rough cords twining.Rudely her mantle chaste they tear away,And the white veil that o'er her drooped declining:This she endured in silence unrepining,Yet her firm breast some virgin tremors shook;And her warm cheek, Aurora's late outshining,Waned into whiteness, and a color took,Like that of the pale rose, or lily of the brook.The crowd collect; the sentence is divulged;With them Olindo comes, by pity swayed;It might be that the youth the thought indulged,What if his own Sophronia were the maid!There stand the busy officers arrayedFor the last act, here swift the flames arise;But when the pinioned beauty stands displayedTo the full gaze of his inquiring eyes,—'T isshe! he bursts through all, the crowd before him flies.Aloud he cries: "To her, oh not to herThe crime belongs, though frenzy may misplead!She planned not, dared not, could not, king, incurSole and unskilled the guilt of such a deed!How lull the guards, or by what process speedThe sacred Image from its vaulted cell?The theft was mine! and 't is my right to bleed!"Alas for him! how wildly and how wellHe loved the unloving maid, let this avowal tell."I marked where your high Mosque receives the airAnd light of heaven; I climbed the dizzy steep;I reached a narrow opening; entered there,And stole the Saint whilst all were hushed in sleep:Mine was the crime, and shall another reapThe pain and glory? Grant not her desire!The chains are mine; for me the guards may heapAround the ready stake the penal fire;For me the flames ascend; 't is mine, that funeral pyre!"Sophronia raised to him her face,—her eyeWas filled with pity and a starting tear:She spoke—the soul of sad humanityWas in her voice, "What frenzy brings thee here,Unhappy innocent! is death so dear,Or am I so ill able to sustainA mortal's wrath, that thou must needs appear?I have a heart, too, that can death disdain,Nor ask for life's last hour companionship in pain."Thus she appeals to him; but scorning life,His settled soul refuses to retreat:Oh glorious scene, where in sublimest strifeHigh-minded Virtue and Affection meet!Where death's the prize of conquest, and defeatSeals its own safety, yet remains unblest!But indignation at their fond deceit,And rage, the more inflames the tyrant's breast,The more this constant pair the palm of guilt contest.He deems his power despised, and that in scornOf him they spurn the punishment assigned:"Let," he exclaimed, "the fitting palm adornThe brows of both! both pleas acceptance find!"Beckoning he bids the prompt tormentors bindTheir galling chains around the youth—'t is done;Both to one stake are, back to back, consigned,Like sunflowers twisted from their worshipped sun,Compelled the last fond looks of sympathy to shun.Around them now the unctuous pyre was piled,And the fanned flame was rising in the wind,When, full of mournful thoughts, in accents wild,The lover to his mate in death repined:"Is this the bond, then, which I hoped should bindOur lives in blissful marriage? this the fireOf bridal faith, commingling mind with mind,Which, I believed, should in our hearts inspireLike warmth of sacred zeal and delicate desire?"For other flames Love promised to impart,Than those our envious planets here prepare;Too, ah too long they kept our hands apart,But harshly now they join them in despair!Yet does it soothe, since by a mode so rareCondemned to die, thy torments to partake,Forbid by fate thy sweetnesses to share;If tears I shed, 't is but for thy dear sake,Not mine,—with thee beside, I bless the burning stake!"And oh! this doom would be indeed most blest,My sharpest sufferings blandishments divine,Might I but be permitted, breast to breast,On thy sweet lips my spirit to resign;If thou too, panting toward one common shrine,Wouldst the next happy instant parting spendThy latest sighs in sympathy on mine!"Sorrowing he spake; she, when his plaints had end,Did thus his fond discourse most sweetly reprehend."Far other aspirations, other plaintsThan these, dear friend, the solemn hour should claim.Think what reward God offers to his saints;Let meek repentance raise a loftier aim:These torturing fires, if suffered in his name,Will, bland as zephyrs, waft us to the blest;Regard the sun, how beautiful his flame!How fine a sky invites him to the west!These seem to soothe our pangs, and summon us to rest."The Pagans lifting up their voices, wept;In stifled sorrow wept the Faithful too;E'en the stern king was touched,—a softness creptO'er his fierce heart, ennobling, pure, and new;He felt, he scorned it, struggled to subdue,And lest his wavering firmness should relent,His eyes averted, and his steps withdrew;Sophronia's spirit only was unbent;She yet lamented not, for whom all else lament.In midst of their distress, a knight behold,(So would it seem) of princely port! whose vestAnd arms of curious fashion, grained with gold,Bespeak some foreign and distinguished guest;The silver tigress on the helm impressed,Which for a badge is borne, attracts all eyes,—A noted cognizance, th' accustomed crestUsed by Clorinda, whence conjectures rise,Herself the stranger is,—nor false is their surmise.All feminine attractions, aims, and parts,She from her childhood cared not to assume;Her haughty hand disdained all servile arts,The needle, distaff, and Arachne's loom;Yet, though she left the gay and gilded roomFor the free camp, kept spotless as the lightHer virgin fame, and proud of glory's plume,With pride her aspect armed, she took delightStern to appear, and stern, she charmed the gazer's sight.Whilst yet a girl, she with her little handLashed and reined in the rapid steed she raced,Tossed the huge javelin, wrestled on the sand,And by gymnastic toils her sinews braced;Then through the devious wood and mountain-wasteTracked the struck lion to his entered den,Or in fierce wars a nobler quarry chased;And thus in fighting field and forest glen,A man to savage beasts, a savage seemed to men.From Persia now she comes, with all her skillThe Christians to resist, though oft has sheStrewed with their blood the field, till scarce a rillRemained, that ran not purple to the sea.Here now arrived, the dreadful pageantryOf death presents itself,—the crowd—the pyre—And the bound pair; solicitous to see,And know what crime condemns them to the fire,Forward she spurs her steed and hastens to inquire.The throng falls back, and she awhile remains,The fettered pair more closely to survey;One she sees silent, one she sees complains,The stronger spirit nerves the weaker prey;She sees him mourn like one whom the sad swayOf powerful pity doth to tears chastise,Not grief, or grief not for himself; but ayeMute kneels the maid, her blue beseeching eyesSo fixed on heaven, she seems in heaven ere yet she dies.Clorinda melts, and with them both condoles;Some tears she sheds, but greater tendernessFeels for her grief who most her grief controls,—The silence moves her much, the weeping less;No longer now does she delay to pressFor information; turning towards oneOf reverend years, she said with eagerness,"Who are they? speak! and oh, what crime has wonThis death? in Mercy's name, declare the deed they've done!"Thus she entreats; a brief reply he gives,But such as well explains the whole event:Amazed she heard it, and as soon conceivesThat they are both sincerely innocent;Her heart is for them, she is wholly bentTo avert their fate, if either arms can aid,Or earnest prayers secure the king's consent;The fire she nears, commands it to be stayed,That now approached them fast, and to th' attendants said:"Let none of you presume to prosecuteYour barbarous office, till the king I see;My word I pledge that at Clorinda's suit,Your fault he will forgive, if fault it be."Moved by her speech and queenlike dignityThe guards obey, and she departs in questOf the stern monarch, urgent of her plea:Midway they met; the monarch she addressedAnd in this skilful mode her generous purpose pressed."I am Clorinda; thou wilt know perchanceThe name, from vague remembrance or renown;And here I come to save with sword and lanceOur common Faith, and thy endangered crown,Impose the labor, lay th' adventure down,Sublime, I fear it not, nor low despise;In open field or in the straitened town,Prepared I stand for every enterprise,Where'er the danger calls, where'er the labor lies!""'T would be assuredly a thing most rare,If the reward the service should precede;But of thy bounty confident, I dareFor future toils solicit, as my meed,Yon lovers' pardon; since the charge indeedRests on no evidence, 't was hard to pressThe point at all, but this I waive, nor pleadOn those sure signs which, urged, thou must confessTheir hands quite free from crime, or own their guilt far less."Yet will I say, though here the common mindCondemns the Christians of the theft, for me,Sufficient reasons in mine own I findTo doubt, dispute, disparage the decree;To set their idols in our sanctuaryWas an irreverence to our laws, howe'erUrged by the sorcerer; should the Prophet seeE'en idols of our own established there?Much less then those of men whose lips his faith forswear:"The Christian statue ravished from your sightTo Allah therefore rather I impute,In sign that he will let no foreign riteOf superstition his pure place pollute:Spells and enchantments may Ismeno suit,Leave him to use such weapons at his will;But shall we warriors by a wand dispute?No! no! our talisman, our hope, our skill,Lie in our swords alone, and they shall serve us still!"She ceased; and he, though mercy could with painSubdue a heart so full of rage and pride,Relents, her reasons move, her prayers constrain.—Such intercessor must not be denied;Thus, though reluctant, he at length complied:"The plea for the fair pleader I receive;I can refuse thee nothing; this," he cried,"May justice be or mercy,—let them live;Guiltless—I set them free, or guilty I forgive!"Restored to life and liberty, how blest.How truly blest was young Olindo's fate!For sweet Sophronia's blushes might attest,That Love at length has touched her delicateAnd generous bosom; from the stake in stateThey to the altar pass; severely tried,In doom and love, already made his mate,She now objects not to become his bride.And grateful live with him who would for her have died.Wiffen's Translation, Canto
Paradise Lost was written by John Milton, who was born in London, Dec. 9, 1608, and died Nov. 8, 1674. After leaving college, he spent five years in study at home, during which time he wrote L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Arcades, Comus, and Lycidas. In 1638 he travelled on the continent and in Italy, where he met Galileo. He hastened home in 1639 on account of the political disturbances in England, and espousing the Puritan cause, devoted the next twenty years of his life to the writing of pamphlets in its defence. In 1649 he was appointed Latin Secretary under Cromwell. In 1652 he lost his sight in consequence of overwork. At the age of twenty-nine, Milton had decided to make an epic poem his life work, and had noted many historical subjects. By 1641 he had decided on a Biblical subject. He had probably conceived Paradise Lost at the age of thirty-two, although the poem was not composed until he was over fifty. It was written after his blindness and dictated in small portions to various persons, the work being collected and revised by Milton and Aubrey Phillips. It was completed, according to the authority of Phillips, in 1663, but on account of the Plague and the Great Fire, it was not published until 1667.
Paradise Lost is divided into twelve books and is written, to use Milton's own words, "In English heroic verse without rhyme, as that of Homer in Greek and of Virgil in Latin, rhyme being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse."
Paradise Lost was neglected until the time of the Whig supremacy in England. In 1688 Lord Somers, the Whig leader, published anédition de luxeof the poem; Addison's papers on it, in 1712, increased its popularity, and through the influence of the Whigs a bust of the poet was placed in Westminster Abbey in 1737.
There is no better proof of the greatness of Paradise Lost than the way in which it has survived hostile criticism. It has been criticised for the lengthy conversations and "arguments" of its characters; for its materialization of the Divine Being; because of its subject; because of Milton's vagueness of description of things awesome and terrible, in comparison with Dante's minute descriptions. But the earnest spirit in which it was conceived and written; the subject, giving it a "higher argument" than any merely national epic, even though many of Milton's, and his age's, special beliefs are things of the past, and its lofty and poetical style, have rendered unassailable its rank among the noblest of the epics.
Joseph Addison's Notes upon the Twelve Books of Paradise Lost; by Albert S. Cook, 1892. (In the Spectator from Dec. 31, 1711-May 3, 1712);
Samuel Austin Allibone's Dictionary of Authors, 1891, vol. ii., pp. 1301-1311;
Matthew Arnold's A French Critic on Milton (see his Mixed Essays, 1880, pp. 260-273);
Walter Bagehot's Literary Studies, by Richard Holt Hutton, 1879, vol. i., 202-219;
Richard Bentley's Emendations on the Twelve Books of Paradise Lost, 1732;
E. H. Bickersteth's Milton's Paradise Lost, 1876. (St. James Lectures, 2d series. Another edition, 1877);
Hugh Blair's Paradise Lost (see his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 1783, vol. ii., 471-476);
Miss Christian Cann's A Scriptural and Allegorical Glossary to Paradise Lost, 1828;
Charles Dexter Cleveland's Complete Concordance to Milton's Poetical Works, 1867;
Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Lectures and Notes on Shakespeare and other English Poets collected by T. Ashe, 1893, pp. 518-529;
William T. Dobson's The Classic Poets, their lives and times etc., 1879;
Charles Eyre's Fall of Adam, from Milton's Paradise Lost, 1852;
George Gilfillan's Second Gallery of Literary Portraits, 1852, pp. 17-25;
S. Humphreys Gurteen's The Epic of the Fall of Man; a comparative Study of Caedmon, Dante, and Milton, 1896;
William Hazlitt On the Character of Milton's Eve (see his Round Table ed. by W. Carew Hazlitt, 1889, pp. 150-158);
William Hazlitt On Milton's Versification (see his Round Table, ed. by W. Carew Hazlitt, 1889, pp. 51-57);
John A. Himes's Study of Milton's Paradise Lost, 1878;
Samuel Johnson's Milton (see his Lives of the Poets; ed. by Mrs. Alexander Napier, 1890, vol. i.);
Thomas Keightley's Introduction to Paradise Lost (see his An account of the Life, Opinions, and Writings of John Milton, 1855, pp. 397-484);
Walter Savage Landor's Imaginary Conversations, Southey and Landor, 1853, vol. ii., 57-74, 156-159;
Thomas Babington Macaulay's Milton (see his Critical and Historical Essays, ed. 10, 1860, vol. i., pp. 1-61);
William Massey's Remarks upon Milton's Paradise Lost, 1761;
David Masson's Introduction to Paradise Lost (see his edition of Milton's Poetical Works, 1893, vol. ii., pp. 1-57);
David Masson's Life of Milton, 1880, vol. vi., 505-558, 621-636;
David Masson's Three Devils (Luther's, Goethe's, and Milton's), (see his Three Devils and other Essays, 1874);
James Peterson's A complete Commentary on Paradise Lost, 1744;
Jonathan Richardson's Explanatory Notes and Remarks on Paradise Lost, 1734;
Edmond Scherer's Milton and Paradise Lost (see his essays on English Literature; Tr. by George Saintsbury, 1891, pp. 134-149);
John Robert Seeley's Milton (see his Roman Imperialism and other Lectures and Essays), 1871, pp. 142-152;
First Edition of Paradise Lost, Book Lore, 1886, iii., 72-75;
J. A. Himes's Cosmology of Paradise Lost, Lutheran Quarterly, 1876, vi., 187-204;
J. A. Himes's Plan of Paradise Lost, New Englander, 1883, xlii., 196-211;
Satan of Milton and the Lucifer of Byron compared, Knickerbocker, 1847, xxx., 150-155;
Satan of Paradise Lost, Dublin University Magazine, 1876, lxxxviii., 707-714;
Augustine Birrell's Obiter Dicta (2d series 1887, pp. 42-51);
Isaac Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature; Bentley's Milton, 1867, pp. 138-139;
Henry Hallam's Literary History of Europe, 1873, ed. 5, vol. iii., pp. 475-483;
Mark Pattison's John Milton, n. d. (English Men of Letters Series);
H. A. Taine's History of English Literature; Tr. by H. Van Laun, 1877, vol. ii., pp. 106-124.
When that bright spirit, afterwards known as Satan, rose in rebellion against the Almighty Ruler of the Universe, presumptuously thinking himself equal to him in strength and following, he was overthrown by the Great Power and cast with his followers out of Heaven down to his future dwelling, flaming Hell.
Nine days he and his horrid crew fell through Chaos into the flaming pit yawning to receive them, and there lay for nine days,—rendered still more miserable by the thought of their immortality and the eternal bliss they had forfeited. Then Satan, rousing himself from the stupor consequent upon the fall, half rose and addressed the next in power to himself, Beelzebub.
"Thou art the same, yet not the same," said he; "changed, lost is some of thy former brightness. Yet why repine? While we live, while we have so large a following, all is not lost. Our hate still lives, and have we but strength enough, we may still revenge ourselves upon him who thrust us into this accursed place."
Rising from the lake, his great shield slung over his shoulders, the unconquered archangel walked over the burning marl to the beach of that fiery sea, and there with chiding words addressed the legions strewn around him. The great army rose hastily at the voice of its chief and passed before him, spirits whose heavenly names were now forever lost, who later became the gods of the idolaters. There was mighty Moloch, Chemos, those who later went by the general names of Baalim and Ashtaroth,—Thammuz, Dagon, Rimmon, Osiris, Isis, Orus and their train, Belial, and last of all, the Ionian gods.
His despair in part dissipated by the sight of this heroic array, their prince, towering high above all, addressed them. No one had foreseen the calamity that had overtaken them. Who could have guessed the power of the Almighty? But though overthrown they were not totally defeated. A rumor had long since been rife of the creation of another world with which they could interfere. At any rate, there must never be peace between them and the heavenly Powers. War there must be, war in secret, or war waged openly. As he ended, shield clashed against shield, and swords, quickly drawn, flashed before his eyes, and loud cries hurled defiance to Heaven.
The legions, led by Mammon, who in Heaven had been an honored architect, sought a hill near by, and quickly emptying it of its rich store of gold and jewels, built a massive structure. Like a temple in form was it, and round about it stood Doric columns overlaid with gold. No king of any future state could boast of a grander hall than this palace of Pandemonium which was so quickly reared upon a hill in Hell, and to which the heralds' trumpets now summoned all the host.
On the massive throne, blazing with jewels, sat the fallen spirit, and thus addressed his followers: "Our success is sure in whatever we undertake. We shall never be riven with internecine warfare, for surely no one will quarrel over precedence in Hell. Therefore, united, we can, sure of our success, debate of the way in which we shall take up our warfare with the powers that have overthrown us."
Moloch, Belial, Mammon, and Beelzebub spoke. Moloch was in favor of open war, since nothing could be worse than Hell, and continued assault against the Most High would, in annoying him, be a sweet revenge. Belial, who though timorous and slothful, was a persuasive orator, denounced Moloch's plan. Since the ruler of Heaven was all-powerful, and they immortal, no one knew to what greater misery he could push them; perhaps he would bury them in boiling pitch to eternity, or inflict a thousand undreamed-of tortures. War, open and secret, he disliked, since it was impossible to conceal aught from the eye of the Most High. To make the best of Hell seemed all that was possible; in time they might become inured to its flames and better days might come, if they but accepted their doom patiently.
Mammon also considered war impossible. They could never hope to overcome the Almighty; neither could they hope nor wish for a reconciliation, for how hateful would be an eternity spent in cringing to one whom they hated. The desert soil of Hell teemed with riches, they could find peaceful pursuits, and it was his advice to continue there in quiet, untroubled by any thoughts of revenge.
Amid the murmur of applause that followed Mammon's speech, Beelzebub, than whom none towered higher save Satan, arose, his face grave, his attitude majestic. "Would you, Thrones and Imperial Powers," he cried, "think to build up a kingdom here, secure from the arm of Heaven? Have you so soon forgotten that this is not a kingdom ceded to you by the Most High, but a dungeon in which he has shut you for your everlasting punishment? Never will he forget that you are his prisoners; your lot will not be peace, but custody and stripes. What return can we make, then, but to think out some slow but sure and sweet revenge? It is not necessary to attempt to scale the walls of Heaven. Other things remain. There is this new world, his plaything. It may lie exposed, and we can at least make the attempt to seize it and lay it waste, and thus vex him." As he saw their eyes sparkle, he continued: "We may in this attempt come near to the steps of our old abode and breathe again its delicious airs instead of these hellish flames. But first we must find some one, strong, wary, and watchful, to send in search of it."
Satan strode forth, his courage and his consciousness of it making his face shine with transcendent glory. "Long is the way and hard; its dangers unknown and terrible, but I should be a poor sovereign did I hesitate in the attempt to seek it out. I do not refuse the sovereignty, for I fear not to accept as great a share of hazard as of honor. Stay here; charm away your time, and I will seek deliverance abroad for all of us."
As he spoke he rose to depart, fearful lest others might now offer to go and share the glory with him.
The legions rose with a sound like thunder, bowed in deepest reverence and went forth, some, to explore their dismal abode, others to amuse themselves at games, others to discuss Free Will and Fate, while their leader pursued his way toward the gate of Hell.
The nine-fold gates were of brass, iron, and adamantine rock, reaching high to the mighty roof, and most horrible were the Shapes that guarded it.
On one side sat a creature, woman to the waist, below, a serpent, surrounded by a crew of hell hounds, forever barking and then seeking refuge within her. On the other, a Shape, black, fierce, terrible, crowned with the likeness of a kingly crown, and shaking in its hands a dreadful dart. As he strode, Hell trembled. Satan, undaunted, met him with fierce words. As the two stood, their lances pointed at each other, the woman shrieked and ran between them.
"Father, rush not upon thy son! Son, raise not thy hand against thy father!" She then explained that she was Satan's daughter, Sin, who had sprung from his head full grown, and that she later became by him the mother of the creature called Death who sat with her to guard the gates.
Satan at once unfolded to them his plan of seeking the new world and making a happy home for both Sin and Death, where they could forever find food to gratify their hideous cravings. Charmed by his highly-colored pictures, and forgetful of the commands from above, Sin opened the mighty doors, so that the flames of Hell spread far out into Chaos, but her strength failed her when she attempted to close them again.
For a moment Satan looked out into the mixture of Hot and Cold and Moist and Dry that formed Chaos, and then started forth, now rising, now falling, his wings heavy with the dense masses, now wading, now creeping, until at last he reached the spot where was fixed the throne of Chaos and of Night. Here Satan learned of the situation of the new world and soon caught a glimpse of it, hanging like a star, by a golden chain, from Heaven.
Sitting in Heaven, high throned above all, God, all-seeing, all-knowing, was conscious of Satan's escape from Hell and his approach to the new world. To his Son, sitting on his right hand, he pointed out the fallen spirit. "No prescribed bounds can shut our Adversary in; nor can the chains of hell hold him. To our new world he goes, and there, by no fault of mine, will pervert man, whom I have placed therein, with a free will; so to remain until he enthralls himself. Man will fall as did Satan, but as Satan was self-tempted, and man will be deceived by another, the latter shall find grace where his tempter did not."
Great was the joy of the Son when he learned that man would receive mercy for his transgression. "Pardon and mercy he shall receive," declared the Father, "but some one must be willing to expiate his sin for him; the just must die for the unjust. Who in Heaven is willing to make the sacrifice?"
For a moment all the Heavenly quire stood mute; then the Son of God spoke and implored his Father to let his anger fall on him, since he could not wholly die, but could arise from death and subdue his vanquisher.
When his Father accepted the sacrifice, and named him Son of God and Man who should hereafter be Universal King, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, Heaven rang with the shouts of the Angels, who, casting down their amaranthine wreaths until the golden pavement was covered with the garlands, took their golden harps and sang the praises of the Father and the Son.
While they sang, Satan walked over the vast globe on which he had alighted, through what in after years, when the world was peopled, was to be the Paradise of Fools, the spot to which the spirits of all things transitory and vain, of those who had worked for their reward in life instead of in Heaven, would come. He walked around the dark globe until, directed by a gleam of light, he found the spot where a ladder led up to Heaven. Just below it, down through the spheres, was the seat of Paradise to which he was bending his way.
Down through the crystal spheres he bent his way toward the Sun, which attracted him by its superior splendor. Espying Uriel, the Angel of the Sun, he quickly took the form of a youthful Cherub, and, approaching Uriel, told him that having heard of the new world he had been seized by a longing to quit the bands of Cherubim and see for himself the wonderful work of the Creator.
Directed by the unsuspecting Uriel, Satan sped downward and standing upon the top of Niphates, surveyed Eden.
As he looked, his spirit was troubled. He had brought Hell with him, and his unhappy thoughts boiled and surged in his troubled mind. "Sun, I hate thee, because thy beams recall to me what I was and how I fell. The matchless King of Heaven deserved no such return from me. His service was easy. Had I only been created a lower Power!—But even then, might not some higher one have led me into temptation? What shall I do, whither shall I fly, to escape infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Hell is around me, I myself am Hell! There is no hope for me. Submission is the only way left, and I could not unsay what I have said; I could never bridge the gulf made by my revolt. Farewell to remorse! Good is forever lost to me, and I must now make Evil my good. I can at least divide the empire of the world with the King of Heaven."
As he realized how his bitter thoughts had dimmed his countenance he smoothed it over with outward calm, but not before Uriel, from the Sun, had noted and wondered over his strange gestures.
Leaping over the high natural walls of Paradise, Satan, in the form of a cormorant, perched himself on the Tree of Life. Beautiful was the scene before him. All the trees and plants were of the noblest kind. In the midst of them stood the Tree of Life with its golden fruit, and not far off the Tree of Knowledge. Southward through Eden ran a river, which, passing under a huge hill, emerged into four great streams wandering through many afterwards famous realms. Between the rows of trees stretched level lawns where grazed the happy flocks, and over the green mead were sprinkled flowers of every hue. No fairer scene ever met living eyes, and fairest of all were the two stately forms, in whose looks shone the divinity of their Maker. Hand in hand they passed through the garden, refreshed themselves with the delicious fruits, and were happy in each other.
As he gazed on them while the animals fell asleep and the sun sank below the horizon, Satan, still torn with conflicting emotions, ruminated over the unhappiness he was to bring the lovely pair. He admired them, he could love them; they had not harmed him, but he must bring unhappiness upon them because of their likeness to their Creator. Through them only could he obtain his longed-for revenge.
Anxious to learn where to attack them, he prowled about them, now as a lion, now as a tiger, listening to their conversation. They spoke of their garden, of the Tree of Life, and of the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. "In the day ye eat thereof, ye shall surely die," had been their warning. Eve recalled the day of her creation, when she had first fled from Adam, and then yielded to his embraces, and Satan, watching their caresses, envied and hardened his heart. "Live while ye may!" he muttered. "Soon will I return and offer you new woes for your present pleasures."
In the mean time, Gabriel, warned by Uriel, who suspected that an evil spirit had crept into Paradise, had set watches around the garden. Ithuriel and Zephon, sent to search for him, spied Satan in the form of a toad, sitting near the ear of Eve, tainting her dreams with foul whispers. Touched by Ithuriel's spear, he was forced to resume his own shape and was taken to Gabriel. The angry Satan attempted to use force, but warned by a sign from Heaven that his strength was insufficient, fled, murmuring, through the night.
When morning dawned on Eden, a morn of unimaginable beauty, Adam waked Eve from her restless slumbers, and heard her troubled dreams, in which she had been tempted to taste of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. He comforted her, and after their morning hymn, in which they glorified their Creator, they set about their pleasant work of pruning the too luxuriant vines of their Paradise. In the mean time, the Father above, knowing the design of Satan, and determined that man should not fall without warning, sent Raphael down to Adam to tell him that he was threatened by an enemy, and that, as a free agent, if he fell, his sin would be upon his own head.
Six-winged Raphael swept down through the spheres and stood in Paradise, welcomed by Adam. Eve hastened to set before their guest every delicacy that Eden knew, and while she was preparing these Adam listened to the Angel's warning.
To emphasize the sin of disobedience, Raphael related to the pair the story of Satan's conspiracy with the other powers because the Father had proclaimed the power of his Son. The Father, knowing Satan's confidence in himself, had allowed him for two days to fight an equal number of his legions of angels, among whom was Abdiel who had fled, indignant, from Satan's ranks, and on the third day, when the legions of evil lay crushed beneath the mountains which the shining angels had heaped upon them, the Son of God drove forth in his chariot, and single-handed, forced them before him, terror-stricken, until, Heaven's wall having opened, they fell downward for nine days, in horror and confusion into the depths of Hell. The Messiah, returning home in triumph in his chariot, was welcomed by the bright orders into the home of his Father.
Delighted by the recital of Raphael, Adam asked him to relate the story of the Creation, and explain to him the motion of the celestial bodies. He then told Raphael of his own creation; how he awoke as from a sleep and found the Sun above him and around him the pleasant groves of Paradise; how he named the animals as they passed before him, according to the will of God, and how he had pleaded with his Maker for a companion and equal, until the Creator, casting him into a sound sleep, took from his side a rib and formed from it his beauteous Eve. As Adam concluded, the setting sun warned Raphael to depart.
Satan, after fleeing from Gabriel, had hidden in the dark parts of the earth, so that he could creep in at night unseen of Uriel. After the eighth night, he crept in past the watchful Cherubim, and stealing into Paradise, wrapped in the mist rising over the river that, shooting underground, rose up as a fountain near the Tree of Life, he crept, though not without loathing, into the serpent, in which form he could best evade the watchful eyes of the heavenly guards and accomplish his purpose.
When morning dawned, Eve asked Adam for once to permit her to work alone, so that they might accomplish more. Adam, who constantly desired her presence, prayed her to remain, warning her of the enemy of whom Raphael had spoken, and telling her that they could resist temptation more easily together than when separated. But Eve was obdurate, and Adam finally consented that she should go alone to work.
As she moved among the groves, tying up the drooping flowers, like to Pomona in her prime, or to Ceres, the sight of so much beauty, goodness, and innocence moved even the serpent, as he approached, intent on the destruction of her happiness. But as he looked, the thought of her joy but tortured him the more, since happiness was no longer possible for him.
This was before the serpent had been compelled to crawl his whole length on the ground, and as he moved on, fold on fold, his head proudly reared, his scales brilliant in color, he was not an unpleasant object to look upon. He circled about Eve as though lost in admiration, until her attention was attracted, and then astounded her by addressing her in her own language. When she demanded by what means he had acquired speech, he told her by the plucking and eating of a certain tree in the garden, which he had no sooner tasted than he felt his inward powers to develop until he found himself capable of speech.
Eve at once asked him to take her to the tree, but when she recognized the forbidden Tree of Knowledge, she demurred, assuring the serpent that God had commanded them not to touch it, for if they ate of it, they should surely die. "Am I not alive?" asked her tempter, "and have I not eaten of it? Is it not a rank injustice that you should be forbidden to taste it and to lack the Knowledge of Good and Evil which it would give you? Where can the offence lie? It must be envy that causes such a prohibition."
His words, the sight of the fruit, and natural hunger all prevailed on Eve, and she plucked a branch from the tree and tasted the fruit. As she ate she saw Adam coming in search of her, holding a garland which he had been binding to crown her. To his reproaches, she replied with the arguments of her tempter, until Adam, in despair, determined to taste the apple that he might not lose Eve. Paradise without her would not be Paradise, and no new wife could make him forget her.
After the first exhilaration of the food was past they began to reproach each other, mindful of their destiny, of which they had been warned by Raphael, and, engaged in this fruitless chiding, they were found by the Son, who, informed of their transgression by the angels, sought them out in their place of concealment. Adam and Eve he sentenced to a life of sorrow and labor, the serpent to go despised and ever at enmity with man. Then, pitying the unhappy pair, he clad them in skins and re-ascended to Heaven.
While this was occurring in Eden, Sin and Death, feeling in some mysterious way the success of their parent, determined to leave Hell and seek their new home. Passing through Chaos, they pushed the heavy elements this way and that, cementing them with Death's mace until they constructed of them a bridge from the gates of Hell to the point on earth at which Satan had first alighted, and here met him, just returning, flushed with success, to Hell.
All the followers of Satan were gathered in Pandemonium to hear the news of his success, which he related, overjoyed at having wrought the ruin of mankind and revenged himself on God by so small a thing as the eating of an apple. As he concluded and stood waiting their applause, he heard a universal hiss, and saw himself surrounded by serpents, and himself changing into an enormous dragon. The great hall was filled with the monsters, scorpions, asps, hydras, and those who stood waiting without with applause for their leader were likewise changed into loathsome reptiles. Without the hall a grove sprang up, loaded with tempting fruit, but when, tortured with thirst, they tried to eat, it turned in their mouths to bitter ashes. After a time they were permitted to take again their own shapes, but were compelled to resume this serpent-form for a certain number of days each year, to crush their pride.
When God saw the entrance of Sin and Death into the world, he proclaimed to his Saints that their seeming victory was but temporary, and that eventually his Son would defeat Sin, Death, and the Grave, and seal up the mouth of Hell. Then, as the Halleluias rang out, he ordered the angels to make certain changes in the universe as a punishment to man. The Sun was so to move as to affect the earth alternately with a cold and heat almost unbearable; to the Moon were assigned her motions; the other planets were to join in various ways, often "unbenign." The winds were assigned their stations to torment the earth and sea, and the thunder was set to strike terror to the heart of man. The poles of the earth were pushed aslant, and soon the effects of the changes were felt in heat, cold, wind, and storm.
Adam, though absorbed in his own misery and momentarily expecting Death, saw the changes, and bemoaned his woes the more. How would his mysterious progeny despise him, since he was the cause of their being brought into the world of woe! When Eve attempted to comfort him he drove her from him with harsh words, saying that in time to come women would be the unhappy cause of all man's misery, as she had been of his. At last, seeing the futility of his outcries Adam began to cheer his wife, recalling the promise that their offspring should crush the head of the serpent, and suggested to her that they go to their former place of prayer and pour forth to God their true contrition and repentance.
The glad Son, presenting these prayers at his Father's throne, interceded with him for them, since their contrition now was worth more than their worship in a state of innocence. His intercession was accepted, but since they had lost the two gifts of Happiness and Immortality, they must leave the garden lest they be tempted to taste next of the Tree of Life and make their woe eternal.
Michael was sent down to drive them from the garden, and if the pair seemed repentant and disconsolate he was ordered to comfort them with the promise of better days and to reveal to them somewhat of the future. In habit as a man Michael descended and declared to Adam and Eve that they could no longer abide in Paradise. When Adam, himself broken with grief, attempted to console the heart-broken Eve, the Angel comforted her also, and causing a sleep to fall upon her, led Adam to a hill-top, whence could be seen the hemisphere of the earth, soon to be covered by the seats of empires.
Touching Adam's eyes with three drops from the well of life, the Angel showed him a long panorama, beginning with the crime of Cain, and showing the building of the Ark and its landing on Ararat. When he perceived that Adam's eyes were weary, he recited to him the story of Abraham, of the deliverance from Egypt, the wandering in the Wilderness, of the royal stock of David from which would spring the seed so often promised Adam, who should ascend the hereditary throne, and whose glory should be universal.
Overjoyed, Adam inquired when would take place the final death stroke to Satan, the bruising with the Victor's heel. Michael responded that Satan was not to be destroyed, but his works in Adam and his seed, and that the sacrifice of the Son's life for man would forever crush the strength of Satan's progeny, Sin and Death. Then, to that Heaven to which he would reascend, the faithful would go when the time came for the world's dissolution, and there would be received into the bliss eternal.
Strengthened and sustained, Adam went down from the mount and met Eve, just awaking from comforting dreams.
The Cherubim descended, and, urged by the Angel, the two took their way into the wide world that lay before them, and looking back beheld the flaming swords of the Cherubim at the gates of their lost Paradise.