A History of English Prose Fiction Part 5

make even less pretence to reality than the martial heroes. They are usually poets and musicians; speaking in courtly phrases, and occupied with amorous adventures, they serve sometimes to relieve, and sometimes to heighten, the more stirring scenes.

A third element in the "Arcadia" is the comic, and with this, as might be expected from the rather crude ideas of humor prevalent in the sixteenth century, Sidney met with indifferent success. The wit depends on the ugliness, the perversity, and the clownish character of Dametas, his wife, and their daughter Mopsa. It partakes of the nature of the practical joke, and though it no doubt amused the courtiers of Elizabeth, is too clumsy for a more cultivated taste. But although Sidney's comic scenes may no longer amuse, it must be said that they are free from the low coa.r.s.eness and ribaldry which have furnished merriment to times which pretended to a much higher standard of wit and education than his own. An interesting contrast may be made between a comic pa.s.sage of the "Arcadia,"[79] representing a fight between two cowards, and perhaps the only scene in the "Morte d'Arthur" of humorous intent,[80]--that in which King Mark is ignominiously put to flight by Arthur's court fool disguised in the armor of a knight.

In the history of English literature, Sir Philip Sidney's romance will always have a prominent place as the first specimen of a fine prose style. The affectations and mannerisms which are its chief defect were due to the unsettled condition of the language, and to the influence of foreign works, which the general love of learning had made familiar to cultivated Englishmen. The position of the "Arcadia" in fiction is established by the exquisite descriptions of nature and the life-like sketches of character which will often reward the patient reader. That prolixity, which more than any other cause has made the work obsolete, and, as a whole, unreadable, was a recommendation rather than an objection at the time of publication. The "Arcadia," standing almost alone in the department of fiction, and far superior to its few compet.i.tors, took the place of a small circulating library. A spirit of lofty ideality pervades the work of Sir Philip Sidney, which is expressive of the aspirations of his time. In the fictions of that age is to be seen a constant attempt, not always successful, to dignify life, to exalt the beautiful, and to conceal or condemn the base.

Everyday life was not tempting to the writer, because it contained too much that was repulsive. The story teller and the poet painted amid unreal scenes that happiness and virtue which they thought more easily to be conceived in an ideal land of knights and shepherds, than amidst the cares and dangers of their own existence.[81]

[Footnote 57: Paine's "History of English Literature," book iii, ch. 1.]

[Footnote 58: Nichol's "Progresses," vol. I, p. 3.]

[Footnote 59: The Italian tales were issued in various collections, such as Painter's "Palace of Pleasure," Whetstone's "Heptameron," the "Histories" of Goulard and Grimstone. One of the best of these collections is "Westward for Smelts," by Kinde Kit of Kingstone, circa 1603, reprinted by the Percy Society. It is on the same plan as Boccaccio's "Decamerone," except that the story-tellers are fish-wives going up the Thames in a boat. Imitations of the Italian tales may be found in Hazlitt's "Shakespeare's Library," notably "Romeo and Julietta." Most of these are modernized versions of old tales. I may here add, as undeserving further mention, such stories as "Jacke of Dover's Quest of Inquirie," 1601, Percy Soc.; "A Search for Money," by William Rowley, dramatist, 1609, Percy Soc.; and "The Man in the Moone, or the English Fortune-Teller," 1609, Percy Soc.]

[Footnote 60: The most comprehensive remarks on Lyly and "Euphues" are to be found in the _London Quarterly Review_ for April, 1801, and are due to Mr. Henry Morley.]

[Footnote 61: Henry Peacham, "Compleat Gentleman." See Drake's "Shakespeare and his Times."]

[Footnote 62: Shakespeare ridiculed the affectations of contemporary language in "Love's Labour Lost." Among the characters of Ben Jonson are some good Euphuists. In "Every Man out of his Humour," Fallace says (act v, sc. x), "O, Master Brisk, as 'tis said in Euphues, Hard is the choice, when one is compelled, either by silence to die with grief, or by speaking to live with shame." In "The Monastery," a novel which the author himself considered a failure, Sir Walter Scott represented a Euphuist. But the language of Sir Piercie Shafton is entirely devoid of the characteristics of Euphuism, and gives a very false impression concerning it. (See introduction to "The Monastery.") Compare pa.s.sages quoted in the text with one in chap. xiv ("Monastery") beginning: "Ah, that I had with me my Anatomy of Wit." Also _pa.s.sim_.]

[Footnote 63: The lines quoted from the "Winter's Tale" are in act iv, sc. 3. For Greene's words see "Dorastus and Fawnia," in Hazlitt's "Shakespeare's Library," part I, vol. 4, p. 62. The resemblance between the two pa.s.sages is pointed out by Dunlop ("History of Fiction," p.

404). Collier in his introduction to "Dorastus and Fawnia" denied this obligation of Shakespeare to Greene. But he was evidently led into this error by liking the following pa.s.sage, instead of the one quoted in the text, for the foundation of Shakespeare's lines: "The G.o.ds above disdaine not to love women beneathe. Phoebus liked Sibilla: Jupiter Io; and why not I, then Fawnia?"]

[Footnote 64: Another of Greene's tales, possessing much the same merits and the same defects as those already mentioned is "Never too Late."]

[Footnote 65: Shakespeare's Celia.]

[Footnote 66: Act I, sc. 3.]

[Footnote 67: "Miscellanea," part ii, essay iv.]

[Footnote 68: Gray's "Life of Sidney," p. 8.]

[Footnote 69: "Pierce Penniless."]

[Footnote 70: Folio, 1622. p. 6.]

[Footnote 71: Folio, 1622, p. 10.]

[Footnote 72: Folio, p. 130.]

[Footnote 73: Folio, p. 115.]

[Footnote 74: Folio, p. 260.]

[Footnote 75: See an "Answer in 'Eikon Basilike,'" Milton's Works, Symmons' ed., v. 2, p. 408.]

[Footnote 76: Folio, p. 248.]

[Footnote 77: Folio, p. 116.]

[Footnote 78: Folio, p. 231.]

[Footnote 79: Book iii.]

[Footnote 80: "Morte d'Arthur," book x, chap. 12.]

[Footnote 81: A Scotchman named Barclay published a partly political and partly heroic volume called "Argenis" in 1621. It was much commended by Cowper the poet, but being written in Latin, is hardly to be included in English fiction. See Dunlop, chap. x. Francis G.o.dwin wrote a curious story about 1602, called "The Man in the Moon," in which is described the journey of one Domingo Gonzales to that planet.

Dunlop ("Hist. of Fiction") thought Domingo to be the real author. See chapter xiii. This romance is chiefly remarkable for its scientific speculations, and the adoption by the author of the Copernican theory.

It was translated into French, and imitated by Cyrano de Bergerac, who in his turn was imitated by Swift in Brobdignag. See Hallam, "Lit. of Europe," vol 3, p. 393.]

CHAPTER IV.

THE PURITANS. BUNYAN'S "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."

I.

The renaissance of learning, with its delight in a sense of existence, its enjoyment of a new life, a newly acquired knowledge, and a quickened intelligence, was gradually supplanted by that renaissance of religion which followed the general introduction of the Bible among the English people. Weary of the oppression of the clergy, weary of giving an often ruinous obedience to the tyranny of men whose lives gave them no claim to control the conduct of others, the early Puritan found in the Bible the knowledge of G.o.d and the means of grace which he despaired of obtaining from the priest. The Bible became in reality _The Book_. It was the one volume possessed and read by the people at large. The cla.s.sical authors, the volumes of translations issued in Elizabeth's time, the productions, even, of English genius had been familiar only to the upper and best-educated cla.s.ses. The great body of the people were without books, and the Bible became their one literary resource, and the sole teacher of the conditions by which salvation could be attained. It was seized upon with extraordinary avidity and enthusiasm. Old men learned to read, that they might study it for themselves. Crowds gathered in churches and private houses to hear it read aloud. A good reader became a public benefactor. Alike in manor and in cottage, the family gathered at night to listen with awe-struck interest to the solemn words whose grandeur was not yet lessened by familiarity. As we quote, often unconsciously, from a hundred different authors, the Puritans quoted from their one book.[82] Some, like Bunyan, at first preferred the historical chapters. But the Bible soon came to have a far more powerful and absorbing interest than any of a literary nature. There men looked for their sentence of eternal life or eternal torment. There they sought the solution of the question: "What shall I do to be saved?" And they sought it with all the fervor of conscientious men who realized, as we cannot realize, the doctrine of eternal d.a.m.nation. To understand the influence of the Bible, we must remember how completely men believed in a personal G.o.d, ruling England then, as He had ruled Israel of old; and in a devil who stalked through the world luring men to their perdition. The Bible was studied with a fearful eagerness for the way to please the one and to escape the other. Looked upon as the word of G.o.d, pointing out the only means of salvation, men placed themselves, through the Bible, in direct communication with the Deity, and, casting aside the authority of a church, acknowledged responsibility to Him alone. The difficulty of interpreting obscure portions of the Scriptures drove many to frenzy and despair. A hopeful or consoling pa.s.sage was hailed with joy. "Happy are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." "Lo," wrote Tyndale, "here G.o.d hath made a covenant wyth us, to mercy full unto us, yf we wyll be mercy full one to another."

Thus two ideas became paramount: the idea of G.o.d, and the idea of conscience. G.o.d was thought of as a judge who will reward His chosen servants by eternal happiness, but who will deliver those who do not know Him, or those who sin against His laws, to Satan and everlasting fire; a G.o.d to please whom is the first object of this life, as no pleasure and no pain here can compare with the pleasure or pain to come. This conception of the Deity still survives among us, but it is not realized with the intensity of men who feel the hand of G.o.d in every incident of their lives, who fancy that the Devil in person is among them, and who distinctly hear his tempting words. Conscience, the guide who pointed out the path of rect.i.tude, became strict and self-searching, ever looking inwardly, and judging harshly, magnifying, through the greatness of its ideal of virtue, every failing into a crime. The natural result of these ideas seething in a brain which had little other food was Puritanism: the subordination of all other interests of life to the attainment of a spiritual condition acceptable in the sight of G.o.d. Following this aim with feverish intentness, and tortured by a conscience of extreme tenderness, the Puritans naturally cast aside the pleasures of this life as likely to interfere with the attainment of future happiness, and as worthless compared to it. It was no time for gaiety and trifling when the horrors of h.e.l.l were staring them in the face.

There is extant a life-like picture of a London housewife, which can teach us much regarding the spirit of Puritanism.[83] "She was very loving and obedient to her parents, loving and kind to her husband, very tender-hearted to her children, loving all that were G.o.dly, much misliking the wicked and profane. She was a pattern of sobriety unto many, very seldom was seen abroad, except at church. When others recreated themselves, at holidays and other times, she would take her needlework, and say, 'here is my recreation.'"

The self-denial of this virtuous housewife developed into that austerity which, when Puritanism had become the ruling power in England, closed the theatre and the bear-garden, stopped the dancing on the village green, and a.s.sumed a dress and manner, the sombreness of which was meant to signify a scorn of this world. While we can now easily perceive the mistakes of the Puritans, and condemn the folly of prohibiting innocent amus.e.m.e.nts which form a natural outlet for exuberant spirits, it will be well if we can do justice to the n.o.bility of aim, and the greatness of self-sacrifice, to which their austerity was due. We must remember that the aim of the Puritans was a G.o.dliness far more exacting than that which we seek, and requiring a proportionate sacrifice of immediate pleasure. We must remember, too, that the amus.e.m.e.nts of that time were in large part brutal, like the bear-gardens; and licentious, like most of the theatres. Puritanism could only exist among men filled to an uncommon degree with a love of virtue, who were ready to undergo every hards.h.i.+p, and to sacrifice every personal inclination to attain it. Growing up among the people at large, Puritanism showed a strong national love of religion and morality. The resolution with which its devotees pursued their aims, the serene content with which the martyrs welcomed the flames which were to open the gates of Heaven, were backed by a strength of faith not exceeded by that of the early Christians. The self-control and self-sacrifice of the Puritans moulded the armies of the Commonwealth, and overthrew the tyranny of Charles. But their finer qualities were clouded by the fanaticism which a long persecution had engendered. A phrase in our description of the London housewife unconsciously tells the story: "Loving all that were G.o.dly, much misliking the wicked and profane." The G.o.dly were the sharers of her own faith, the "wicked and profane" were all those without its pale. Here lay the weakness of Puritanism: its narrowness, its lack of sympathy with the world at large, its indifference to the sufferings of those who had no place in the ranks of the elect.

Among such men we must look in vain for literary productions having the aim of entertainment. The literature of the time was chiefly polemical, and commentaries crowded on the book-shelves the volumes of cla.s.sical and Italian writers. To Puritanism, fiction was the invention of the Evil One, but still to Puritanism we owe, what is now, and seems destined ever to remain, the finest allegory in the English language.

[Footnote 82: See Green's "Short History of the English People," chap.

viii, sec. 1.]

[Footnote 83: John Wallington's description of his mother. Green's "Short History of the English People," p. 451.]

II.

That John Bunyan, a poor, illiterate tinker, was able to take the first place among writers of allegory, and to accomplish the extraordinary intellectual feat of producing a work which charmed alike the ignorant, who could not perceive its literary merits, and cultivated critics, who viewed it only from a literary standpoint, depended partly on his own natural gifts, and partly on the character of Puritan thought. To write a good allegory requires an imagination of unusual power. It requires, in addition, a realization of the subject sufficiently strong to give to immaterial and shadowy forms a living personality. These conditions were combined in Bunyan's case to an unexampled degree. He possessed an imagination the activity of which would have unsettled the reason of any less powerfully const.i.tuted man. His subject, the doctrine of salvation by grace, was, by the absorbing interest then attached to it, impressed upon his mind with a vividness difficult to conceive. In "Grace Abounding in the Chief of Sinners," Bunyan left a description of his life, and the workings of his mind on religious subjects, which is without a parallel in autobiography. The veil which hides the thoughts of one man from another is withdrawn, and the reader is placed in the closest communion with the mind of the writer. In "Grace Abounding" is easily detected the secret of Bunyan's success in allegory. "My sins did so offend the Lord, that even in my childhood He did scare and affright me with fearful dreams, and did terrify me with dreadful visions. I have been in my bed greatly afflicted, while asleep, with apprehensions of devils and wicked spirits, who still, as I then thought, labored to draw me away with them, of which I could never be rid. I was afflicted with thoughts of the Day of Judgment, night and day, trembling at the thoughts of the fearful torments of h.e.l.l fire."

One Sunday, "as I was in the midst of a game at cat, and having struck it one blow from the hole, just as I was about to strike it the second time, a voice did suddenly dart from heaven into my soul, which said, 'Wilt thou leave thy sins and go to Heaven, or have thy sins and go to h.e.l.l?' At this I was put to an exceeding maze; wherefore leaving my cat on the ground, and looking up to Heaven, saw, as with the eyes of my understanding, Jesus Christ looking down upon me very hotly displeased with me, and severely threatening me with some grievous punishment for my unG.o.dly practices. * * * I cannot express with what longing I cried to Christ to call me. I saw such glory in a converted state that I could not be contented without a share therein. Had I had a whole world it had all gone ten thousand times over for this, that my soul might have been in a converted state." After Bunyan's conversion he says of his conscience: "As to the act of sinning, I was never more tender than now. I durst not take up a pin or a stick, though but so big as a straw, for my conscience now was sore, and would smart at every touch.

I could not tell how to speak my words for fear I should misplace them."

A man so sensitive to supernatural impressions could realize them as completely as the actual experiences of his daily life. Such, in fact, they were. With a conscience so tender, and a longing so intense for what he considered a condition of grace, Bunyan described the journey of Christian with the minuteness and fidelity of one who had trod the same path. The sketch of the pilgrim, which opens the work, stamps Christian at once an individual.

As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a den; and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man clothed with rags, standing in a certain place, with his face from his own house, a Book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. I looked, and saw him open the Book, and read therein; and, as he read, he wept and trembled; and not being able longer to contain, he broke out with a lamentable cry, saying "what shall I do?"

The same impression of reality pervades the whole work. Christian's sins take an actual form in the burden on his back. Every personage whom he meets on his journey, and every place through which he pa.s.ses appears to the mind of the reader with the vividness of actual experience. The child or the laborer reads the "Pilgrim's Progress" as a record of adventures undergone by a living man; the scholar forgets the art which has raised the picture before his mind, in a sense of contact with the subject portrayed. This is the triumph of a great genius, and it is a triumph to which no other writer has attained to the same degree. Other allegorists have pleased the fancy or gratified the understanding, but Bunyan occupies at once the imagination, the reason and the heart of his reader. Defoe's power of giving life to fict.i.tious scenes and personages has not been surpa.s.sed by that of any other novelist. But Defoe's scenes and characters were of a nature familiar to his readers, and therefore easily realized. In the "Pilgrim's Progress," strange and unreal regions become well-known places, and moral qualities distinct human beings. Evangelist, who puts Christian on the way to the Wicked Gate; Pliable, who deserts him at the first difficulty; Help, who pulls him out of the Slough of Despond; Mr. Worldly Wiseman, who shows him an easy way to be rid of his burden, are all life-like individuals. Timorous, Talkative, Vain Confidence, Giant Despair, are not mere personifications, but distinct human beings with whom every reader of the "Pilgrim's Progress" feels an intimate acquaintance. Not less real is the impression produced by the various scenes through which the journey of Christian conducts him. The Slough of Despond, the Wicket Gate, the House of the Interpreter, the Hill Difficulty, have been familiar localities to many generations of men, who have watched Christian's struggle with Apollyon in the Valley of Humiliation, and followed his footsteps as they trod the Valley of the Shadow of Death, as they pa.s.sed through the dangers of Vanity Fair, and brought him at last to the Celestial City, and the welcome of the s.h.i.+ning Ones.