To Bruno, a true son of the Renaissance, in the light of those large, antique, pagan ideas, the difference between Rome and the Reform would figure, of course, as but an insignificant variation upon [244] some deeper, more radical antagonism between two tendencies of men’s minds.  But what about an antagonism deeper still? between Christ and the world, say!  Christ and the flesh?—­that so very ancient antagonism between good and evil?  Was there any place for imperfection in a world wherein the minutest atom, the lightest thought, could not escape from God’s presence?  Who should note the crime, the sin, the mistake, in the operation of that eternal spirit, which could have made no misshapen births?  In proportion as man raised himself to the ampler survey of the divine work around him, just in that proportion did the very notion of evil disappear.  There were no weeds, no “tares,” in the endless field.  The truly illuminated mind, discerning spiritually, might do what it would.  Even under the shadow of monastic walls, that had ever been the precept, which the larger theory of “inspiration” had bequeathed to practice.  “Of all the trees of the garden thou mayst freely eat!  If you take up any deadly thing, it shall not hurt you!  And I think that I, too, have the spirit of God.”

Bruno, the citizen of the world, Bruno at Paris, was careful to warn off the vulgar from applying the decisions of philosophy beyond its proper speculative limits.  But a kind of secresy, an ambiguous atmosphere, encompassed, from the first, alike the speaker and the doctrine; and in that world of fluctuating and ambiguous characters, the alerter mind certainly, pondering on this novel reign of the spirit—­what it might actually be—­would hardly fail to find in Bruno’s theories a method of turning poison into food, to live and thrive thereon; an art, surely, no less opportune in the Paris of that hour, intellectually or morally, than had it related to physical poisons.  If Bruno himself was cautious not to suggest the ethic or practical equivalent to his theoretic positions, there was that in his very manner of speech, in his rank, unweeded eloquence, which seemed naturally to discourage any effort at selection, any sense of fine difference, of nuances or proportion, in things.  The loose sympathies of his genius were allied to nature, nursing, with equable maternity of soul, good, bad, and indifferent, rather than to art, distinguishing, rejecting, refining.  Commission and omission; sins of the former surely had the preference.  And how would Paolo and Francesca have read the lesson?  How would this Henry the Third, and Margaret of the “Memoirs,” and other susceptible persona then present, read it, especially if the opposition between practical good and evil traversed another distinction, to the “opposed points,” the “fenced opposites” of which many, certainly, then present, in that Paris of the last of the Valois, could never by any possibility become “indifferent,” between the precious and the base, aesthetically—­between what was right and wrong, as matter of art?