III. Allegory
The word allegory is used widely to signify any figurative and symbolic writing (proverb, parable, metaphor, simile, or allegory proper); but we are going to use it in its distinctive and academic sense as a rhetorical and narrative type.
Characteristics
Like the fable and the parable, the allegory teaches a lesson; like them it is a story, but longer than either, more detailed than either. Connected with the actors in it are generally abstract ideas used figuratively, directly personified as people on adventures or used to form the atmosphere, the goal of attainment, the place of destination, the road over which the hero travels. For instance, Youth sets out from the House of Innocence over the Road of Life and strays into the Path of Temptation that leads through the Wood of Error. Here he meets Falsehood and Shame, and overcomes them, for the time at least, and passes through the clearing of Experience toward the Castle of Perseverance, grim and dark and uninviting, that stands hard by, yet beyond, the House of Mirth, etc., etc.
When you write an allegory, you will not be so trite as this illustrative example, but will get a good idea, a good spiritual lesson, and will teach it with a unique and original plot in which the adventures themselves are interesting. The world's greatest prose allegory, "Pilgrim's Progress," has always been read for the story. The "Faerie Queene" as a metrical romance and a triple allegory of religion, Elizabeth's court, and the perfect man, has been a storehouse for prose narrators as well as for poets for three hundred years. Practically all the old morality plays were allegories. "Everyman," the best extant, is very vital indeed when put on the stage.
Plato's "Vision of Er"
Plato's great myth-allegory in the "Republic" was designed by him to teach his people his theory of the transmigration of souls and how they might safely pass over the river of Forgetfulness without being defiled and might hold fast to the heavenly way and follow after Justice and Virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Popularly the story is known as a vision; but Socrates, Plato's literary character who tells the story, calls it a tale, a tale of a brave man Er, the Son of Armenius, who, on the twelfth day, as he was lying on the funeral pile, returned to life and told what he had seen in the other world.
This device of a vision was widely adopted, doubtless indirectly from Plato, as a good framework for allegory. We find the medieval poets dreaming dreams and letting their souls depart from their bodies pretty generally.
Modern Allegories
The romance and the allegory were the prime medieval types, and we find them persisting together or apart in our own English literature from William Langland's "Piers the Plowman" with its Tower of Truth, Conscience, Envy, Advice of Hunger, and the like, to Henry Van Dyke's "Blue Flower" with its crystal river flowing from a mysterious source. "The Hunter" and the "Artist's Secret" by Olive Schreiner and "Poems in Prose" by Oscar Wilde are exquisite modern examples. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote scarcely anything that is not inlaid with allegory. The "Great Stone Face" is a fine instance of how concrete pure allegory can be. It teaches a beautifully spiritual truth by the portrayal of American customs and everyday human shortsightedness. A good German prose allegory is "Peter Schlemihl: or, The Man Who Sold his Shadow." Stevenson's tremendous study, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," is really allegory.
A review of the names of the older but famous allegories will be perhaps more interesting and suggestive than the perusal from beginning to end of any one of them would be, for they are for the most part long and tedious.
Some famous English allegories
In early Anglo-Saxon verse we find appearing the favorite device of allegory, the vision. In the "Dream of the Rood" the author tells of how he saw a strange Tree, the gallows of shame, now the glorious Tree of the Savior, and how it told its life-history. "The Address of the Soul to the Body" is a grim allegorical dialogue. In "The Phoenix," the fabulous bird represents Christ, as does also the Panther in the other poem, the sweet-breathed, lonely, harmless beast. These are all verse, and with the exception of the "Dream of the Rood" hardly narrative. The last two are really English bestiaries. "The Romaunt of the Rose," the greatest medieval allegory, in its English form, contains seventy-six hundred ninety-eight lines. You will find all these included in Chaucer's work, but only seventeen hundred five are his.[1] The "Parlament of Foules" and the "House of Fame," however, are his, but not "The Court of Love," "the Flower and the Leaf," "The Cockowe and the Nightingale." Between Chaucer and Spenser come Dunbar's "Thistle and the Rose" and "The Golden Targe;" Lydgate's "Temple of Glass;" Hawes's "Pastime of Pleasure;" Douglas's "Palace of Honour" and "King Hart;" Lyndesay's "Dream" and "Complaint of Papingo;" Barclay's "Ship of Fooles;" Sackville's "Induction" to the "Mirror for Magistrates." After Spenser, besides Phineas Fletcher's "The Purple Island" and Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," come Addison's "Vision of Mirza," Parnell's "Paradise of Fooles," Thomson's "Castle of Indolence," Johnson's "Journey of a Day," Collin's "The Passions," and Aikin's "The Hill of Science."
In the beautiful Elizabethan English translation we have also the allegories of the Bible, of which the "Twenty-third Psalm" is doubtless the best known example, as it is perhaps the best loved quotation from the Old Testament. All the psalms put their truths allegorically in the broad literary sense. Ezekiel, Isaiah, and the other prophets often speak in strict allegorical narratives, which they explain either immediately or later. The great literary beauty of the "Revelation" depends on the exquisite use of allegory; the leaves of the tree of life are for the healing of the nations; the water of the river of life is for everyone that thirsteth.
Allegory and parable distinguished
Mention of Hawthorne's use of allegory calls to mind the distinction a student of narrative types must make between parable on the one hand and a particular kind of allegory on the other, that kind in which there are no abstractions. He asks himself, What is the difference when both narratives have only people for actors? He finds the answer in the fact that the actors of the parable are always representatives of a type, doing nothing outside the type, nothing individual, while the actors of that sort of allegory in which there are no personified abstractions are always individual men even though they may have universal vices or virtues; that is, they perform individual deeds and go through peculiar experiences, that not all the men of their class could perform and go through. But although more individual, the allegory is less human than the parable; for the happenings of the parable are always probable, while those of the allegory may be probable, improbable, or so fantastic as to be wholly impossible.
The allegory is usually longer also than the parable. Besides, unlike the parable, the allegory demands no interpretation from without, but carries its interpretation along from name to name. Hence the allegory can be said to be an extended metaphor, and the parable, a long half simile. On the other hand, many proverbs are concise parables and many are also brief allegories.
Allegory and fable distinguished
Allegory meets fable on the fact that both may be satiric; but stands aside from fable on the fact that allegory is much longer and employs personified abstractions as characters. Hawthorne's "Celestial Railroad" is an example of humorous-satiric allegory. Parable, we recall, is always spiritual, allegory often so, and fable never.
Working definition
When you set out to write, therefore, you will have in mind a general summary somewhat like this: An allegory is a narrative of imaginary events designed to teach a series of utilitarian or spiritual truths—the actors in the events being either individuals with typical follies, vices, and virtues, or personified abstractions that go through individual and particular experiences.
How to write allegory
To proceed to write original allegory you will need to pay especial attention to (1) the series of lessons you mean to teach: Shall it be in the realm of politics, trade, education, or general morals? (2) The tone of your teaching: Shall it be humorous or grave? (3) The kind of personages: Shall they be real persons made more-or-less typical and abstract, or shall they be abstractions made more-or-less concrete and individual? (4) The course of the action: What shall happen? There must be something a-doing that is in itself interesting and that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. You must not fall into the error of merely enumerating and cataloguing. You must have a definite action going forward in which your personages take a necessary part. Allegory fell into disrepute in the past because of the attempts of lazy and careless writers. There is evidence of its revival as a popular type. A present-day writer in the Atlantic Monthly has shown us how vigorous, informing, and pungent it may be: "The Novelist's Allegory" is entirely worth while with its good old-fashioned flavor. (5) You must pay attention to the characterizations: you must see to it that the speeches you put into the mouths of your creatures could be delivered by them in the world or society you have got together. Everything in the action—the time, the place, the characters of the persons—must conform to the ideal nature of the subject. The laws of the actual universe you may violate, but not the laws of your imaginary universe. Moreover, the nearer the actual and the imaginary come together on essentials, the more effective your preaching will be. What you write as author's narrative must be vital and contributive.
Make your description of dress and gesture so vivid that it will quicken the imagination of your readers. Never yourself think of your personages as abstractions. Let them live and move before you as real beings; then tell about them.
A testimony to the return of allegory into good favor is its use on the stage. We no longer are afraid to see that Ibsen's "Peer Gynt" is an allegorical satire and not the bucolic love tale that some persons try to make it, and that even the wonderful scene of Ase's death is pathos serving satire. Maeterlinck's "Blue Bird," which is unmistakable allegory, has pleased the latest theater-going public high and low.
Present-day interest in primitive types
This thought leads to a word in general on primitive types. Although it is becoming the fashion to be interested in them, and hence many poor specimens both in prose and verse will get into print, yet the writing of such simple and idealistic things by way of reaction from our intense and often hectic realism, is surely in the main wholesome, regardless of the value of the individual pieces. Years ago Count Tolstoy said, "The artist of the future will understand that to compose a fairy-tale, a little song which will touch, a lullaby or a riddle which will entertain, a jest which will amuse, or to draw a sketch such as will delight dozens of generations or millions of children and adults, is incomparably more important and more fruitful than to compose a novel, or a symphony, or paint a picture of the kind which diverts some members of the wealthy classes for a short time and is then forever forgotten. The region of this art of the simplest feelings accessible to all is enormous, and it is as yet almost untouched." Of course the hope of literary excellence for such an epoch, if it comes, will lie in the possibility of the pieces being kept as Tolstoy's own are, very near to the naïve.
The Artist
One evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment. And he went forth into the world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.
But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth Forever.
Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth forever. And in the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.
And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.
And out of the bronze of the Image of The Sorrow that endureth forever, he fashioned an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a moment.
—Oscar Wilde.
"Poems in Prose" (Fortnightly Review, July 1, 1894).
The House of Judgment
And there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked before God.
And God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast shown cruelty to those in need of succor, and to those who lacked help thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee and thou did'st not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of my afflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou did'st take unto thyself, and thou did'st send the foxes into the vineyard of thy neighbor's field. Thou did'st take the bread of the children and give it to the dogs to eat, and my lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at peace and praised me thou did'st drive forth on the highway, and on mine earth out of which I made thee thou did'st spill innocent blood."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I have shown, thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden, thou did'st pass by. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed of thine abominations thou did'st rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou did'st build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and did'st eat of the thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was broidered with the three signs of shame. Thy idols were neither of gold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou did'st stain their hair with perfumes, and put pomegranates in their hands. Thou did'st stain their feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With antimony thou did'st stain their eyelids and their bodies thou did'st smear with myrrh. Thou did'st bow thyself to the ground before them, and the thrones of thy idols were set in the sun. Thou did'st show to the sun thy shame and to the moon thy madness."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And the third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Evil hath been thy life, and with evil did'st thou requite good, and with wrong-doing kindness. The hands that fed thee thou did'st wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou did'st despise. He who came to thee with water went away thirsting and the outlawed men who hid thee in their tents at night thou did'st betray before dawn. Thine enemy who spared thee thou did'st slay in an ambush, and the friend who walked with thee thou did'st sell for a price, and to those who brought thee Love, thou did'st ever give Lust in thy turn."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man and said, "Surely I will send thee to Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee."
And the Man cried out, "Thou can'st not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for what reason?"
"Because in Hell I have always lived," answered the Man.
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, "Seeing that I may not send thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto Heaven will I send thee."
And the Man cried out, "Thou can'st not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven and for what reason?"
"Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it," answered the man.
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
—Ibid.
The Chain That Binds
It was morning when the youth started out from his father's house and sought the highway. Those the young man met on the road inquired of him, "Where are you going? What do you seek?"
He answered, "I seek Freedom!"
"Freedom!" exclaimed his questioners. "Are you not free? Are we not all our own masters?"
The young man smiled. "I do not mean freedom of thought and speech. That you may have. What I seek is liberation from heredity and environment, from the physical, intellectual, and spiritual laws that tyrannize over us and make us slaves."
His listeners turned away, some laughed, and some scorned, and some wept, and the young man traveled on. But all along the road he met those that scorned him and laughed at him, and soon his steps lagged, and his feet seemed leaden. Looking down, he saw a chain binding his ankles—the chain of Public Opinion. Now he must delay. Angrily he tore at the chain until the hasps broke, and he stood unbound.
Then he made haste; for he had already lost much time. Soon he met a vender of goods, and the vender stopped and besought the youth to buy a jewel. The young man desired the jewel, and he thought, "Why can I not beat this man and steal his jewel?" But lo, his hands were fettered with the chain of Conscience, and he wrenched the chain till it fell apart. Then he beat the man and took his jewel and went on his way.
Ahead of him he saw a cloud, and from the cloud arose a mist, and the mist formed itself into many shapes, strange signs and symbols, the like of which he had never seen before. The youth cried out, "This is a new faith; I will embrace it." But his arms were bound behind him with the chain of Superstition; and he strove to break the chain, but when the lock gave way, the cloud and mist had disappeared.
Thus year after year sped on; the youth became a man; the man grew old before his time. When he broke a fetter, a new one took its place. The chains that bound him were innumerable. One by one he broke the laws that society and the ages had formed for him, but each wish that he gratified gave place to another.
The chains that he had worn and wrenched weighed on him. His flesh and spirit were chafed and sore. Weak and disheartened he sank down, and the memory of his fruitless life recurred to him. A voice arrested him, and looking up he saw a man older and more withered than he was.
And the stranger said, "Behold the chain that binds you now." The Seeker-after-Freedom looked down. His ankles were encumbered by the heaviest chain he had yet worn.
The old man continued. "You flaunted yourself in the face of your fellows. You boasted that you were greater than they. You are, in that you are the arch-sinner. You have sought to destroy those gifts with which the Almighty endowed you. You found it easy to break the fetter of Love, of Conscience, of Remorse. This chain you cannot break. You welded it yourself. The strength of an armed force cannot tear it asunder; the fires of Perdition cannot melt it."
The traveler died, bound with the chain of Insatiable Desire.
—Elizabeth Sudborough.
The Love Which Surpassed All Other Loves
The girl's heart was lonely. She had never had the comforts of a home. And there was a yearning for some love which would fill her life. So she determined to set out in search of such a love. In her wanderings she met many hardships, and was scorned by everyone as a simpleton.
After she had wandered a year, one day a great eagle flew to her, and said, "I know what you are seeking. I can satisfy your wants. I am the governing force of the world; I am Love of Gold. Take me, and while I am with you, all will be well with you."
For a moment the girl was dazzled by the comforts which seemed stretched out before her if she would accept this Love. But her heart was not satisfied, and she shook her head. The eagle flew away with a taunting laugh.
Another year passed and still she had met nothing to quiet her longing. But one day as she was walking through a village, she saw a happy family seated on the door-step of a neat cottage. While she was looking at this group, she heard a voice, and, glancing down, saw a beautiful little wren.
"I am the Love of a Mother's Heart," said the little bird. "When all others fail, I still remain true. Take me and hide me in your bosom, that your mother's heart may be tender to you."
Tears came to the girl's eyes, for the little bird had touched a wound in her life, the neglect of her by her mother. But her longing was not yet satisfied, and so she passed on.
At the end of another year she was walking along the side of a quiet pond. She stopped and looked at the water, envying it its peace. A blue-jay was perched on the branch of a tree nearby, and soon he spoke to her. "I am the Love of Man for Woman. I have been known since the beginning of time. Let me be with you, that you may be a good wife."
The girl was strongly tempted to take this Love of which she had heard so much. Perhaps this was, after all, the Love she was seeking. As she meditated, the old longing came back with redoubled force. It would not do to make this Love a part of her life, so she sadly left the blue-jay, and went on.
The next year came, and the girl had become a woman, but her heart was still empty of love. She entered a quiet grove one evening, and, wearied, sat down on a log.
A lovely nightingale came and perched itself on her shoulder, and in a sweetly comforting tone said, "Many have had the same longing which you have had; but few have possessed the courage to resist temptations offered by other loves. I am the Love of Woman for Woman, the Love of True Friendship. I am greater and more enduring than any other love. Take me and hide me in your heart. You will be happy then as few are privileged to be."
The girl was comforted, and she took the beautiful bird and placed it next her heart. At last her longing was satisfied, and she praised God for His Gift.
—Florence Gifford.
CHAPTER III
THE INGENIOUS-ASTONISHING GROUP
This large division of narratives of imaginary events is somewhat hard to name briefly, though it is definitely enough marked off as a distinct class when we consider the tone, the source, and the purpose. The whole air of these extravagant tales is that of sophistication. No reader however ignorant would mistake them for stories of primitive people. Though they sometimes contain supernatural creatures as actors, though they recount stupendous deeds, though they often proceed in simple diction, yet the reader is never confused as to the state of mind of the narrator. It is plain that, however much he may seem to wish to create credulity in the mind of the reader, the story-teller has none in his own mind. He is a non-believer—or better perhaps, a "make-believer," in the children's sense of the term. The source of his narrative is ingenuity, and the purpose is astonishment or satire. In the present study we shall notice four smaller divisions of this group: (1) the tale of mere wonder, (2) the imaginary voyage with a satiric or instructive purpose, (3) the tale of scientific discovery and mechanical invention, (4) the detective story and other tales of pure plot.