6. Feeble-mind, I am ashamed to have to admit, behaved himself in a perfectly scandalous manner at the house of Gaius mine host. He went beyond all bounds during those eventful weeks. Those weeks were one long temptation to Feeble-mind—and he went down in a pitiful way before his temptation. Two marriages and two honeymoons, with suppers and dances every night, made the old hostelry like very Pandemonium itself to poor Feeble-mind. He would have had Matthew’s and James’s marriages conducted next door to a funeral. Because he would not eat flesh himself, he protested against Gaius killing a sheep. “Man,” said old Honest, almost laying his quarterstaff over Feeble-mind’s shoulders—“Man, dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?” “I shall like no laughing,” said Feeble-mind; “I shall like no gay attire; I shall like no unprofitable questions.” I think it took some self-conceit to refuse to sit at table beside Christiana because of her gay attire. And I hope Mercy did not give up dressing well, even after she was married, to please that weak-minded old churl. And as to unprofitable questions—we are all tempted to think that question unprofitable which our incapacity or our ignorance keeps us silent upon at table. We think that topic both ill-timed and impertinent and unsafe to which we are not invited to contribute anything. “I am a very ignorant man,” he went on to say; and, if that was said in any humility, Feeble-mind never said a truer word. “It is with me as it is with a weak man among the strong, or as with a sick man among the healthy, or as a lamp despised in the thought of him that is at ease.” All which only brought Greatheart out in his very best colours. “But, brother,” said the guide, “I have it in commission to comfort the feeble-minded, and to support the weak. You must needs go along with us; we will wait for you, we will lend you our help, we will deny ourselves of some things, both opinionative and practical, for your sake; we will not enter into doubtful disputations before you; we will be made all things to you rather than that you shall be left behind.”
7. The first thing that did Mr. Feeble-mind any real good was his being made military guard over the women and the children while the men went out to demolish Doubting Castle. Quis custodiet? you will smile and say when you hear that. Who shall protect the protector? you will say. But wait a little. Greatheart knew his business. For not only did Feeble-mind rise to the occasion, when he was put to it; but, more than that, he was the soul of good company at supper-time that night. “Jocund and merry” are the very words. Yes; give your feeble and fault-finding folk something to do. Send them to teach a class. Send them down into a mission district. Lay a sense of responsibility upon them. Leave them to deal with this and that emergency themselves. Cease carrying them on your back, and lay weak and evil and self-willed people on their back. Let them feel that they are of some real use. As Matthew Arnold says, Let the critic but try practice, and you will make a new man of him. As Greatheart made of Feeble-mind by making him mount guard over the Celestial caravan while the fighting men were all up at Doubting Castle.
8. “Mark this,” says Mr. Feeble-mind’s biographer on the early margin of his history, lest we should be tempted to forget the good parts of this troublesome and provoking pilgrim—“Mark this.” This, namely, which Feeble-mind says to his guide. “As to the main, I thank Him that loves me, I am fixed. My way is before me, my mind is beyond the river that has no bridge, though I am, as you see, but of a feeble mind.” And that leads us with returning regard and love to turn to the end of his history, where we read: “After this Mr. Feeble-mind had tidings brought him that the post sounded his horn at his chamber door. Then he came in and told him, saying, I am come to tell thee that thy Master hath need of thee, and that in very little time thou must behold His face in brightness. Then Mr. Feeble-mind called for his friends, and told them what errand had been brought to him, and what token he had received of the truth of the message. As for my feeble mind he said, that I shall leave behind me, for I shall have no need of that in the place whither I go. Nor is it worth bestowing upon the poorest pilgrim. Wherefore, when I am gone, I desire that you would bury it in a dung-hill. This done, and the day being come in which he was about to depart, he entered the river as the rest. His last words were, Hold out, faith and patience! So he went over to the other side.”
GREAT-HEART
“—when thou shalt enlarge my heart.”—David.
On Sabbath, the 12th December 1886, I heard the late Canon Liddon preach a sermon in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in which he classed Oliver Cromwell with Alexander the Sixth and with Richard the Third. I had taken my estimate of the great Protector’s character largely from Carlyle’s famous book, and you can judge with what feelings I heard the canon’s comparison. And, besides, I had been wont to think of the Protector as having entered largely into John Bunyan’s portrait of Greatheart, the pilgrim guide. And the researches and the judgments of Dr. Gardiner have only gone to convince me, the eloquent canon notwithstanding, that Bunyan could not have chosen a better contemporary groundwork for his Greatheart than just the great Puritan soldier. Cromwell’s “mental struggles before his conversion,” his life-long “searchings of heart,” his “utter absence of vindictiveness,” his unequalled capacity for “seeing into the heart of a situation,” and his own “all-embracing hospitality of heart”—all have gone to reassure me that my first guess as to Bunyan’s employment of the Protector’s matchless personality and services had not been so far astray. And the oftener I read the noble history of Greatheart, the better I seem to hear, beating behind his fine figure, by far the greatest heart that ever ruled over the realm of England.
1. The first time that we catch a glimpse of Greatheart’s weather-beaten and sword-seamed face is when he is taking a stolen look out of the window at Mr. Fearing, who is conducting himself more like a chicken than a man around the Interpreter’s door. And from that moment till Mr. Fearing shouted “Grace reigns!” as he cleared the last river, never sportsman surely stalked a startled deer so patiently and so skilfully and so successfully as Greatheart circumvented that chicken-hearted pilgrim. “At last I looked out of the window, and perceiving a man to be up and down about the door, I went out to him and asked him what he was; but, poor man, the water stood ill his eyes. So I perceived what he wanted. I went in, therefore, and told it in the house, and we showed the thing to our Lord. So He sent me out again to entreat him to come in; but I dare say I had hard work to do it.” Greatheart’s whole account of Mr. Fearing always brings the water to my eyes also. It is indeed a delicious piece of English prose. If I were a professor of belles lettres instead of what I am, I would compel all my students, under pain of rustication, to get those three or four classical pages by heart till they could neither perpetrate nor tolerate bad English any more. This camp-fire tale, told by an old soldier, about a troublesome young recruit and all his adventures, touches, surely, the high-water mark of sweet and undefiled English. Greatheart was not the first soldier who could handle both the sword and the pen, and he has not been the last. But not Cæsar and not Napier themselves ever handled those two instruments better.
2. Greatheart had just returned to his Master’s house from having seen Mr. Fearing safely through all his troubles and well over the river, when, behold, another caravan of pilgrims is ready for his convoy. For Greatheart, you must know, was the Interpreter’s armed servant. When at any time Greatheart was off duty, which in those days was but seldom, he took up his quarters again in the Interpreter’s house. As he says himself, he came back from the river-side only to look out of the Interpreter’s window to see if there was any more work on the way for him to do. And, as good luck would have it, as has been said, the guide was just come back from his adventures with Mr. Fearing when a pilgrim party, than which he had never seen one more to his mind, was introduced to him by his Master, the Interpreter. “The Interpreter,” so we read at this point, “then called for a man-servant of his, one Greatheart, and bid him take sword, and helmet, and shield, and take these, my daughters,” said he, “and conduct them to the house called Beautiful, at which place they will rest next. So he took his weapons and went before them, and the Interpreter said, God-speed.”
3. Now I saw in my dream that they went on, and Greatheart went before them, so they came to the place where Christian’s burden fell off his back and tumbled into a sepulchre. Here, then, they made a pause, and here also they blessed God. “Now,” said Christiana, “it comes to my mind what was said to us at the gate; to wit, that we should have pardon by word and by deed. What it is to have pardon by deed, Mr. Greatheart, I suppose you know; wherefore, if you please, let us hear your discourse thereof.” “So then, to speak to the question,” said Greatheart. You have all heard about the “question-day” at Highland communions. That day is so called because questions that have arisen in the minds of “the men” in connection with doctrine and with experience are on that day set forth, debated out, and solved by much meditation and prayer; age, saintliness, doctrinal and experimental reading, and personal experience all making their contribution to the solution of the question in hand. Just such a question, then, and handled in such a manner, was that question which whiled the way and cheated the toil till the pilgrims came to the House Beautiful. The great doctrinal and experimental Puritans, with Hooker at their head, put forth their full strength and laid out their finest work just on this same question that Christiana gave out at the place, somewhat ascending, upon which stood a cross, and a little below, in the bottom, a sepulchre. But not the great Comment on The Galatians itself, next to the Holy Bible as it is, as most fit for a wounded conscience; no, nor that perfect mass of purest gold, The Learned Discourse of Justification, nor anything else of that kind known to me, is for one moment, to compare in beauty, in tenderness, in eloquence, in scriptural depth, and in scriptural simplicity with Greatheart’s noble resolution of Christiana’s question which he made on the way from the Interpreter’s house to the House Beautiful. “This is brave!” exclaimed that mother in Israel, when the guide had come to an end. “Methinks it makes my heart to bleed to think that He should bleed for me. O Thou loving One! O Thou blessed One! Thou deservest to have me, for Thou hast bought me. No marvel that this made the water to stand in my husband’s eyes, and that it made him trudge so nimbly on. O Mercy, that thy father and thy mother were here; yea, and Mrs. Timorous too! Nay, I wish now with all my heart that here was Madam Wanton too. Surely, surely their hearts would be affected here!” Promise me to read at home Greatheart’s discourse on the Righteousness of Christ, and you will thank me for having exacted the promise.
The incongruity of a soldier handling such questions, and especially in such a style, has stumbled some of John Bunyan’s fault-finding readers. The same incongruity stumbled “the Honourable Colonel Hacker, at Peebles or elsewhere,” to whom Cromwell sent these from Edinburgh on the 25th December 1650—“But indeed I was not satisfied with your last speech to me about Empson, that he was a better preacher than fighter or soldier—or words to that effect. Truly, I think that he that prays and preaches best will fight best. I know nothing that will give like courage and confidence as the knowledge of God in Christ will; and I bless God to see any in this army able and willing to impart the knowledge they have for the good of others. I pray you receive Captain Empson lovingly: I dare assure you he is a good man and a good officer; I would we had no worse.”