Bunyan’s character and person are thus described by Charles Doe: “He appeared in countenance to be of a stern and rough temper. But in his conversation he was mild and affable, not given to loquacity or much discourse in company, unless some urgent occasion required it. Observing never to boast of himself or his parts, but rather to seem low in his own eyes and submit himself to the judgment of others. Abhorring lying and swearing, being just, in all that lay in his power, to his word. Not seeming to revenge injuries; loving to reconcile differences and make friendship with all. He had a sharp, quick eye, with an excellent discerning of persons, being of good judgment and quick wit. He was tall of stature, strong-boned, though not corpulent; somewhat of a ruddy face, with sparkling eyes, wearing his hair on his upper lip after the old British fashion. His hair reddish, but in his later days time had sprinkled it with grey. His nose well set, but not declining or bending. His mouth moderately large, his forehead something high, and his habit always plain and modest. Not puffed up in prosperity, nor shaken in adversity, always holding the golden mean.”
We may add the portrait drawn by one who had been his companion and fellow-sufferer for many years, John Nelson: “His countenance was grave and sedate, and did so to the life discover the inward frame of his heart, that it was convincing to the beholders and did strike something of awe into them that had nothing of the fear of God.”
The same friend speaks thus of Bunyan’s preaching: “As a minister of Christ he was laborious in his work of preaching, diligent in his preparation for it, and faithful in dispensing the Word, not sparing reproof whether in the pulpit or no, yet ready to succour the tempted; a son of consolation to the broken-hearted, yet a son of thunder to secure and dead sinners. His memory was tenacious, it being customary with him to commit his sermons to writing after he had preached them. A rich anointing of the Spirit was upon him, yet this great saint was always in his own eyes the chiefest of sinners and the least of saints.”
An anecdote is told which, Southey says, “authenticates itself,” that one day when he had preached “with peculiar warmth and enlargement,” one of his hearers remarked “what a sweet sermon he had delivered.” “Ay,” was Bunyan’s reply, “you have no need to tell me that, for the devil whispered it to me before I was well out of the pulpit.” As an evidence of the estimation in which Bunyan was held by the highly-educated, it is recorded that Charles the Second expressed his surprise to Dr. Owen that “a learned man such as he could sit and listen to an illiterate tinker.” “May it please your Majesty,” Owen replied. “I would gladly give up all my learning if I could preach like that tinker.”
Although much of Bunyan’s literary activity was devoted to controversy, he had none of the narrowness or bitter spirit of a controversialist. It is true that his zeal for what he deemed to be truth led him into vehemence of language in dealing with those whom he regarded as its perverters. But this intensity of speech was coupled with the utmost charity of spirit towards those who differed from him. Few ever had less of the sectarian temper which lays greater stress on the infinitely small points on which all true Christians differ than on the infinitely great truths on which they are agreed. Bunyan inherited from his spiritual father, John Gifford, a truly catholic spirit. External differences he regarded as insignificant where he found real Christian faith and love. “I would be,” he writes, “as I hope I am, a Christian. But for those factious titles of Anabaptist, Independent, Presbyterian, and the like, I conclude that they come neither from Jerusalem nor from Antioch, but from Hell or from Babylon.” “He was,” writes one of his early biographers, “a true lover of all that love our Lord Jesus, and did often bewail the different and distinguishing appellations that are among the godly, saying he did believe a time would come when they should be all buried.” The only persons he scrupled to hold communion with were those whose lives were openly immoral. “Divisions about non-essentials,” he said, “were to churches what wars were to countries. Those who talked most about religion cared least for it; and controversies about doubtful things and things of little moment, ate up all zeal for things which were practical and indisputable.” His last sermon breathed the same catholic spirit, free from the trammels of narrow sectarianism. “If you are the children of God live together lovingly. If the world quarrel with you it is no matter; but it is sad if you quarrel together. If this be among you it is a sign of ill-breeding. Dost thou see a soul that has the image of God in him? Love him, love him. Say, ‘This man and I must go to heaven one day.’ Serve one another. Do good for one another. If any wrong you pray to God to right you, and love the brotherhood.” The closing words of this his final testimony are such as deserve to be written in letters of gold as the sum of all true Christian teaching: “Be ye holy in all manner of conversation: Consider that the holy God is your Father, and let this oblige you to live like the children of God, that you may look your Father in the face with comfort another day.” “There is,” writes Dean Stanley, “no compromise in his words, no faltering in his convictions; but his love and admiration are reserved on the whole for that which all good men love, and his detestation on the whole is reserved for that which all good men detest.” By the catholic spirit which breathes through his writings, especially through “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” the tinker of Elstow “has become the teacher not of any particular sect, but of the Universal Church.”
CHAPTER IX.
We have, in this concluding chapter, to take a review of Bunyan’s merits as a writer, with especial reference to the works on which his fame mainly rests, and, above all, to that which has given him his chief title to be included in a series of Great Writers, “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” Bunyan, as we have seen, was a very copious author. His works, as collected by the late industrious Mr. Offor, fill three bulky quarto volumes, each of nearly eight hundred double-columned pages in small type. And this copiousness of production is combined with a general excellence in the matter produced. While few of his books approach the high standard of “The Pilgrim’s Progress” or “Holy War,” none, it may be truly said, sink very far below that standard. It may indeed be affirmed that it was impossible for Bunyan to write badly. His genius was a native genius. As soon as he began to write at all, he wrote well. Without any training, is he says, in the school of Aristotle or Plato, or any study of the great masters of literature, at one bound he leapt to a high level of thought and composition. His earliest book, “Some Gospel Truths Opened,” “thrown off,” writes Dr. Brown, “at a heat,” displays the same ease of style and directness of speech and absence of stilted phraseology which he maintained to the end. The great charm which pervades all Bunyan’s writings is their naturalness. You never feel that he is writing for effect, still less to perform an uncongenial piece of task-work. He writes because he had something to say which was worth saying, a message to deliver on which the highest interests of others were at stake, which demanded nothing more than a straightforward earnestness and plainness of speech, such as coming from the heart might best reach the hearts of others. He wrote as he spoke, because a necessity was laid upon him which he dared not evade. As he says in a passage quoted in a former chapter, he might have stepped into a much higher style, and have employed more literary ornament. But to attempt this would be, to one of his intense earnestness, to degrade his calling. He dared not do it. Like the great Apostle, “his speech and preaching was not with enticing words of man’s wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and in power.” God had not played with him, and he dared not play with others. His errand was much too serious, and their need and danger too urgent to waste time in tricking out his words with human skill. And it is just this which, with all their rudeness, their occasional bad grammar, and homely colloquialisms, gives to Bunyan’s writings a power of riveting the attention and stirring the affections which few writers have attained to. The pent-up fire glows in every line, and kindles the hearts of his readers. “Beautiful images, vivid expressions, forcible arguments all aglow with passion, tender pleadings, solemn warnings, make those who read him all eye, all ear, all soul.” This native vigour is attributable, in no small degree, to the manner in which for the most part Bunyan’s works came into being. He did not set himself to compose theological treatises upon stated subjects, but after he had preached with satisfaction to himself and acceptance with his audience, he usually wrote out the substance of his discourse from memory, with the enlargements and additions it might seem to require. And thus his religious works have all the glow and fervour of the unwritten utterances of a practised orator, united with the orderliness and precision of a theologian, and are no less admirable for the excellence of their arrangement than for their evangelical spirit and scriptural doctrine. Originally meant to be heard, they lose somewhat by being read. But few can read them without being delighted with the opulence of his imagination and impressed with the solemn earnestness of his convictions. Like the subject of the portrait described by him in the House of the Interpreter, he stands “like one who pleads with men, the law of truth written upon his lips, the world behind his back, and a crown of gold above his head.”
These characteristics, which distinguish Bunyan as a writer from most of his Puritan contemporaries, are most conspicuous in the works by which he is chiefly known, “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” the “Holy War,” the “Grace Abounding,” and we may add, though from the repulsiveness of the subject the book is now scarcely read at all, the “Life and Death of Mr. Badman.”
One great charm of these works, especially of “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” lies in the pure Saxon English in which they are written, which render them models of the English speech, plain but never vulgar, homely but never coarse, and still less unclean, full of imagery but never obscure, always intelligible, always forcible, going straight to the point in the fewest and simplest words; “powerful and picturesque,” writes Hallam, “from concise simplicity.” Bunyan’s style is recommended by Lord Macaulay as an invaluable study to every person who wishes to gain a wide command over his mother tongue. Its vocabulary is the vocabulary of the common people. “There is not,” he truly says, “in ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ a single expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, that would puzzle the rudest peasant.” We may, look through whole pages, and not find a word of more than two syllables. Nor is the source of this pellucid clearness and imaginative power far to seek. Bunyan was essentially a man of one book, and that book the very best, not only for its spiritual teaching but for the purity of its style, the English Bible. “In no book,” writes Mr. J. R. Green, “do we see more clearly than in ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ the new imaginative force which had been given to the common life of Englishmen by their study of the Bible. Bunyan’s English is the simplest and homeliest English that has ever been used by any great English writer, but it is the English of the Bible. His images are the images of prophet and evangelist. So completely had the Bible become Bunyan’s life that one feels its phrases as the natural expression of his thoughts. He had lived in the Bible till its words became his own.”
All who have undertaken to take an estimate of Bunyan’s literary genius call special attention to the richness of his imaginative power. Few writers indeed have possessed this power in so high a degree. In nothing, perhaps, is its vividness more displayed than in the reality of its impersonations. The dramatis persons are not shadowy abstractions, moving far above us in a mystical world, or lay figures ticketed with certain names, but solid men and women of our own flesh and blood, living in our own everyday world, and of like passions with ourselves. Many of them we know familiarly; there is hardly one we should be surprised to meet any day. This lifelike power of characterization belongs in the highest degree to “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” It is hardly inferior in “The Holy War,” though with some exceptions the people of “Mansoul” have failed to engrave themselves on the popular memory as the characters of the earlier allegory have done. The secret of this graphic power, which gives “The Pilgrim’s Progress” its universal popularity, is that Bunyan describes men and women of his own day, such as he had known and seen them. They are not fancy pictures, but literal portraits. Though the features may be exaggerated, and the colours laid on with an unsparing brush, the outlines of his bold personifications are truthfully drawn from his own experience. He had had to do with every one of them. He could have given a personal name to most of them, and we could do the same to many. We are not unacquainted with Mr Byends of the town of Fair Speech, who “always has the luck to jump in his judgment with the way of the times, and to get thereby,” who is zealous for Religion “when he goes in his silver slippers,” and “loves to walk with him in the streets when the sun shines and the people applaud him.” All his kindred and surroundings are only too familiar to us—his wife, that very virtuous woman my Lady Feigning’s daughter, my Lord Fair-speech, my Lord Time-server, Mr. Facingbothways, Mr. Anything, and the Parson of the Parish, his mother’s own brother by the father’s side, Mr. Twotongues. Nor is his schoolmaster, one Mr. Gripeman, of the market town of Lovegain, in the county of Coveting, a stranger to us. Obstinate, with his dogged determination and stubborn common-sense, and Pliable with his shallow impressionableness, are among our acquaintances. We have, before now, come across “the brisk lad Ignorance from the town of Conceit,” and have made acquaintance with Mercy’s would-be suitor, Mr. Brisk, “a man of some breeding and that pretended to religion, but who stuck very close to the world.” The man Temporary who lived in a town two miles off from Honesty, and next door to Mr. Turnback; Formalist and Hypocrisy, who were “from the land of Vainglory, and were going for praise to Mount Sion”; Simple, Sloth, and Presumption, “fast asleep by the roadside with fetters on their heels,” and their companions, Shortwind, Noheart, Lingerafterlust, and Sleepyhead, we know them all. “The young woman whose name was Dull” taxes our patience every day. Where is the town which does not contain Mrs. Timorous and her coterie of gossips, Mrs. Bats-eyes, Mrs. Inconsiderate, Mrs. Lightmind, and Mrs. Knownothing, “all as merry as the maids,” with that pretty fellow Mr. Lechery at the house of Madam Wanton, that “admirably well-bred gentlewoman”? Where shall we find more lifelike portraits than those of Madam Bubble, a “tall, comely dame, somewhat of a swarthy complexion, speaking very smoothly with a smile at the end of each sentence, wearing a great purse by her side, with her hand often in it, fingering her money as if that was her chief delight;” of poor Feeblemind of the town of Uncertain, with his “whitely look, the cast in his eye, and his trembling speech;” of Littlefaith, as “white as a clout,” neither able to fight nor fly when the thieves from Dead Man’s Lane were on him; of Ready-to-halt, at first coming along on his crutches, and then when Giant Despair had been slain and Doubting Castle demolished, taking Despondency’s daughter Much-afraid by the hand and dancing with her in the road? “True, he could not dance without one crutch in his hand, but I promise you he footed it well. Also the girl was to be commanded, for she answered the musick handsomely.” In Bunyan’s pictures there is never a superfluous detail. Every stroke tells, and helps to the completeness of the portraiture.