The Life of John Bunyan [45]
by a publisher who was "a
repeated offender against the laws of honest dealing," the more we
are inclined to agree with Dr. Brown, that the internal evidence of
their style renders their genuineness at the least questionable.
In the dull prosaic level of these compositions there is certainly
no trace of the "force and power" always present in Bunyan's rudest
rhymes, still less of the "dash of genius" and the "sparkle of
soul" which occasionally discover the hand of a master.
Of the authenticity of Bunyan's "Divine Emblems," originally
published three years after his death under the title of "Country
Rhymes for Children," there is no question. The internal evidence
confirms the external. The book is thoroughly in Bunyan's vein,
and in its homely naturalness of imagery recalls the similitudes of
the "Interpreter's House," especially those expounded to Christiana
and her boys. As in that "house of imagery" things of the most
common sort, the sweeping of a room, the burning of a fire, the
drinking of a chicken, a robin with a spider in his mouth, are made
the vehicle of religious teaching; so in this "Book for Boys and
Girls," a mole burrowing in the ground, a swallow soaring in the
air, the cuckoo which can do nothing but utter two notes, a flaming
and a blinking candle, or a pound of candles falling to the ground,
a boy chasing a butterfly, the cackling of a hen when she has laid
her egg, all, to his imaginative mind, set forth some spiritual
truth or enforce some wholesome moral lesson. How racy, though
homely, are these lines on a Frog! -
"The Frog by nature is but damp and cold,
Her mouth is large, her belly much will hold,
She sits somewhat ascending, loves to be
Croaking in gardens, though unpleasantly.
The hypocrite is like unto this Frog,
As like as is the puppy to the dog.
He is of nature cold, his mouth is wide
To prate, and at true goodness to deride.
And though this world is that which he doth love,
He mounts his head as if he lived above.
And though he seeks in churches for to croak,
He neither seeketh Jesus nor His yoke."
There is some real poetry in those on the Cuckoo, though we may be
inclined to resent his harsh treatment of our universal favourite:-
"Thou booby says't thou nothing but Cuckoo?
The robin and the wren can that outdo.
They to us play thorough their little throats
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring,
Nor dost thou its first tokens to us bring.
Birds less than thee by far like prophets do
Tell us 'tis coming, though not by Cuckoo,
Nor dost thou summer bear away with thee
Though thou a yawling bawling Cuckoo be.
When thou dost cease among us to appear,
Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
Since Cuckoos forward not our early spring
Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in,
And since while here, she only makes a noise
So pleasing unto none as girls and boys,
The Formalist we may compare her to,
For he doth suck our eggs and sing Cuckoo."
A perusal of this little volume with its roughness and quaintness,
sometimes grating on the ear but full of strong thought and
picturesque images, cannot fail to raise Bunyan's pretensions as a
poet. His muse, it is true, as Alexander Smith has said, is a
homely one. She is "clad in russet, wears shoes and stockings, has
a country accent, and walks along the level Bedfordshire roads."
But if the lines are unpolished, "they have pith and sinew, like
the talk of a shrewd peasant," with the "strong thought and the
knack of the skilled workman who can drive by a single blow the
nail home to the head."
During his imprisonment Bunyan's pen was much more fertile in prose
repeated offender against the laws of honest dealing," the more we
are inclined to agree with Dr. Brown, that the internal evidence of
their style renders their genuineness at the least questionable.
In the dull prosaic level of these compositions there is certainly
no trace of the "force and power" always present in Bunyan's rudest
rhymes, still less of the "dash of genius" and the "sparkle of
soul" which occasionally discover the hand of a master.
Of the authenticity of Bunyan's "Divine Emblems," originally
published three years after his death under the title of "Country
Rhymes for Children," there is no question. The internal evidence
confirms the external. The book is thoroughly in Bunyan's vein,
and in its homely naturalness of imagery recalls the similitudes of
the "Interpreter's House," especially those expounded to Christiana
and her boys. As in that "house of imagery" things of the most
common sort, the sweeping of a room, the burning of a fire, the
drinking of a chicken, a robin with a spider in his mouth, are made
the vehicle of religious teaching; so in this "Book for Boys and
Girls," a mole burrowing in the ground, a swallow soaring in the
air, the cuckoo which can do nothing but utter two notes, a flaming
and a blinking candle, or a pound of candles falling to the ground,
a boy chasing a butterfly, the cackling of a hen when she has laid
her egg, all, to his imaginative mind, set forth some spiritual
truth or enforce some wholesome moral lesson. How racy, though
homely, are these lines on a Frog! -
"The Frog by nature is but damp and cold,
Her mouth is large, her belly much will hold,
She sits somewhat ascending, loves to be
Croaking in gardens, though unpleasantly.
The hypocrite is like unto this Frog,
As like as is the puppy to the dog.
He is of nature cold, his mouth is wide
To prate, and at true goodness to deride.
And though this world is that which he doth love,
He mounts his head as if he lived above.
And though he seeks in churches for to croak,
He neither seeketh Jesus nor His yoke."
There is some real poetry in those on the Cuckoo, though we may be
inclined to resent his harsh treatment of our universal favourite:-
"Thou booby says't thou nothing but Cuckoo?
The robin and the wren can that outdo.
They to us play thorough their little throats
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring,
Nor dost thou its first tokens to us bring.
Birds less than thee by far like prophets do
Tell us 'tis coming, though not by Cuckoo,
Nor dost thou summer bear away with thee
Though thou a yawling bawling Cuckoo be.
When thou dost cease among us to appear,
Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year.
But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
Since Cuckoos forward not our early spring
Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in,
And since while here, she only makes a noise
So pleasing unto none as girls and boys,
The Formalist we may compare her to,
For he doth suck our eggs and sing Cuckoo."
A perusal of this little volume with its roughness and quaintness,
sometimes grating on the ear but full of strong thought and
picturesque images, cannot fail to raise Bunyan's pretensions as a
poet. His muse, it is true, as Alexander Smith has said, is a
homely one. She is "clad in russet, wears shoes and stockings, has
a country accent, and walks along the level Bedfordshire roads."
But if the lines are unpolished, "they have pith and sinew, like
the talk of a shrewd peasant," with the "strong thought and the
knack of the skilled workman who can drive by a single blow the
nail home to the head."
During his imprisonment Bunyan's pen was much more fertile in prose