How cam’st thou there, thou fault sublime?
How didst thou pass the Adamantine Gate;
And into Spirit thy self insinuate?
From what dark state? from what deep place?
From what strange uncreated race?
Where was thy ancient habitation found
Before void Chaos heard the forming sound?
Wast thou a Substance, or an airy Ghost,
A Vapour flying in the fluid waste
Of unconcocted air?
And how at first didst thou come there?
Sure there was once a time when thou wert not,
By whom wast thou created? and for what?
Art thou a steam from some contagious damp exhal’d?
How should contagion be intail’d,
On bright seraphic Spirits, and in a place
Where all’s supreme, and Glory fills the Space?
No noxious vapour there could rise,
For there no noxious matter lies;
Nothing that’s evil could appear,
Sin never could Seraphic Glory bear;
The brightness of the eternal Face,
Which fills as well as constitutes the place,
Would be a fire too hot for crime to bear,
’Twould calcine Sin, or melt it into air.
How then did first defilement enter in?
Ambition, thou first vital seed of Sin!
Thou Life of Death, how cam’st thou there?
In what bright form didst thou appear?
In what Seraphic Orb didst thou arise?
Surely that place admits of no disguise,
Eternal Sight must know thee there,
And being known, thou soon must disappear.
But since the fatal Truth we know,
Without the matter whence or manner how:
Thou high superlative of Sin,
Tell us thy nature, where thou didst begin?
The first degree of thy increase,
Debauch’d the Regions of eternal Peace,
And fill’d the breasts of loyal Angels there
With the first Treason and infernal War.
Thou art the high extreme of pride,
And dost o’er lesser crimes preside;
Not for the mean attempt of Vice design’d,
But to embroil the World, and damn Mankind.
Transforming mischief, now hast thou procur’d
That loss that ne’er to be restor’d,
And made the bright Seraphic Morning-star
In horrid monstrous shapes appear?
Satan, that while he dwelt in glorious light, Was always then as pure as he was bright, That in effulgent rays of glory shone, Excell’d by eternal Light, by him alone, Distorted now, and stript of Innocence, And banish’d with thee from the high Pre-eminence, How has the splendid Seraph chang’d his face, Transform’d by thee, and like thy monstrous race? Ugly as is the crime, for which he fell, Fitted by thee to make a local Hell, For such must be the place where either of you dwell.
Thus, as I told you, I only moralize upon the subject, but as to the difficulty, I must leave it as I find it, unless, as I hinted at first, I could prevail with Satan to set pen to paper, and write this part of his own History: No question, but he could let us into the secret; but to be plain, I doubt I shall tell so many plain truths of the Devil, in this History, and discover so many of his secrets, which it is not for his interest to have discover’d, that before I have done, the Devil and I may not be so good friends as you may suppose we are; at least, not friends enough to obtain such a favour of him, tho’ it be for public good; so we must be content till we come ont’ other side the Blue-Blanket, and then we shall know the whole Story.
But now, tho’ as I said, I will not attempt to solve the difficulty, I may, I hope, venture to tell you, that there is not so much difficulty in it, as at first sight appears: and especially not so much as some people would make us believe; let us see how others are mistaken in it, perhaps, that may help us a little in the enquiry; for to know what it is not, is one help towards knowing what it is.
Mr. Milton has indeed told us a great many merry things of the Devil, in a most formal, solemn manner; till in short he has made a good Play of Heaven and Hell; and no doubt if he had liv’d in our times, he might have had it acted with our Pluto and Proserpine. He has made fine Speeches both for God and the Devil, and a little addition might have turn’d it a la modern into a Harlequin Dieu & Diable.
I confess I don’t well know how far the dominion of Poetry extends itself; it seems the Buts and Bounds of Parnassus are not yet ascertain’d; so that for ought I know, by vertue of their antient privileges call’d Licentia Poetarum, there can be no Blasphemy in Verse; as some of our Divines say there can be no Treason in the Pulpit. But they that will venture to write that way, ought to be better satisfy’d about that Point than I am.
Upon this foot Mr. Milton, to grace his Poem, and give room for his Towring Fancy, has gone a length beyond all that ever went before him, since Ovid in his Metamorphosis. He has indeed complimented God Almighty with a flux of lofty words, and great sounds; and has made a very fine Story of the Devil, but he has made a meer je ne scay Quoi of Jesus Christ. In one line he has him riding on a Cherub, and in another sitting on a Throne, both in the very same moment of action. In another place he has brought him in making a Speech to his Saints, when ’tis evident he had none there; for we all know Man was not created till a long while after; and no body can be so dull as to say the Angels may be called Saints, without the greatest absurdity in nature. Besides, he makes Christ himself distinguish them, as in two several Bands, and of differing Persons and Species, as to be sure they are.
Stand still in bright array, ye Saints——— —— ——— ———— ———— Here stand, Ye Angels. ——— Par. Lost. lib. vi. fo. 174.
So that Christ here is brought in drawing up his Army before the last Battle, and making a Speech to them, to tell them they shall only stand by in warlike order, but that they shall have no occasion to fight, for he alone will engage the Rebels. Then in embattling his Legions, he places the Saints here, and the Angels there, as if one were the main Battle of Infantry, and the other the Wings of Cavalry. But who are those Saints? they are indeed all of Milton’s own making; ’tis certain there were no Saints at all in Heaven or Earth at that time; God and his Angels fill’d up the place; and till some of the Angels fell, and Men were created, had liv’d, and were dead, there could have been no Saints there. Saint Abel was certainly the Proto-Saint of all that ever were seen in Heaven, as well as the Proto-martyr of all that have been upon Earth.
Just such another Mistake, not to call it a Blunder, he makes about Hell; which he not only makes local, but gives it a being before the Fall of the Angels; and brings it in opening its mouth to receive them. This is so contrary to the nature of the thing, and so great an absurdity, that no Poetic License can account for it; for tho’ Poesie may form Stories, as Idea and Fancy may furnish Materials, yet Poesy must not break in upon Chronology, and make things which in time were to exist, act before they existed.
Thus