what to me is more wonderful, and which, I think, will be very ill accounted for, is, how came seeds of crime to rise in the Angelic Nature? created in a state of perfect, unspotted holiness? how was it first found in a place where no unclean thing can enter? how came ambition, pride, or envy to generate there? could there be offence where there was no crime? could untainted purity breed corruption? could that nature contaminate and infect, which was always Drinking in principles of perfection?
Happy ’tis to me, that writing the History, not solving the Difficulties of Satan’s Affairs, is my province in this Work; that I am to relate the Fact, not give reasons for it, or sign causes; if it was otherwise, I should break off at this difficulty, for I acknowledge I do not see thro’ it; neither do I think that the great Milton, after all his fine Images and lofty Excursions upon the Subject, has left it one jot clearer than he found it: Some are of opinion, and among them the great Dr. B – s, that crime broke in upon them at some interval, when they omitted but one moment fixing their eyes and thoughts on the glories of the divine face, to admire and adore, which is the full employment of Angels; but even this, tho’ it goes as high as imagination can carry us, does not reach it, nor, to me, make it one jot more comprehensible than it was before; all I can say to it here, is, that so it was, the fact was upon Record, and the rejected Troop are in being, whose circumstances confess the Guilt, and still groan under the Punishment.
If you will bear with a poetic excursion upon the subject, not to solve but to illustrate the difficulty; take it in a few lines, thus,
Thou sin of Witchcraft! firstborn child of Crime!
Produc’d before the bloom of Time;
Ambition’s maiden Sin, in Heaven conceiv’d,
And who could have believ’d
Defilement could in purity begin,
And bright eternal Day be soil’d with Sin?
Tell us, sly penetrating Crime,
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
