The Life of John Bunyan [66]
and
surroundings of his allegory are part of his own every-day life,
and reproduce what he had been brought up amidst in his native
county, or had noticed in his tinker's wanderings. "Born and
bred," writes Kingsley, "in the monotonous Midland, he had no
natural images beyond the pastures and brooks, the town and country
houses, he saw about him." The Slough of Despond, with its
treacherous quagmire in the midst of the plain, into which a
wayfarer might heedlessly fall, with its stepping-stones half
drowned in mire; Byepathmeadow, promising so fair, with its stile
and footpath on the other side of the fence; the pleasant river
fringed with meadows, green all the year long and overshadowed with
trees; the thicket all overgrown with briars and thorns, where one
tumbled over a bush, another stuck fast in the dirt, some lost
their shoes in the mire, and others were fastened from behind with
the brambles; the high wall by the roadside over which the fruit
trees shot their boughs and tempted the boys with their unripe
plums; the arbour with its settle tempting the footsore traveller
to drowsiness; the refreshing spring at the bottom of Hill
Difficulty; all are evidently drawn from his own experience.
Bunyan, in his long tramps, had seen them all. He had known what
it was to be in danger of falling into a pit and being dashed to
pieces with Vain Confidence, of being drowned in the flooded
meadows with Christian and Hopeful; of sinking in deep water when
swimming over a river, going down and rising up half dead, and
needing all his companion's strength and skill to keep his head
above the stream. Vanity Fair is evidently drawn from the life.
The great yearly fair of Stourbridge, close to Cambridge, which
Bunyan had probably often visited in his tinker days, with its
streets of booths filled with "wares of all kinds from all
countries," its "shows, jugglings, cheats games, plays, fools,
apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind," its "great one
of the fair," its court of justice and power of judgment, furnished
him with the materials for his picture. Scenes like these he draws
with sharp defined outlines. When he had to describe what he only
knew by hearsay, his pictures are shadowy and cold. Never having
been very far from home, he had had no experience of the higher
types of beauty and grandeur in nature, and his pen moves in
fetters when he attempts to describe them. When his pilgrims come
to the Hill Difficulty and the Delectable Mountains, the difference
is at once seen. All his nobler imagery is drawn from Scripture.
As Hallam has remarked, "There is scarcely a circumstance or
metaphor in the Old Testament which does not find a place bodily
and literally in 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' and this has made his
imagination appear more creative than it really is."
It would but weary the reader to follow the details of a narrative
which is so universally known. Who needs to be told that in the
pilgrimage here described is represented in allegorical dress the
course of a human soul convinced of sin, struggling onwards to
salvation through the trials and temptations that beset its path to
its eternal home? The book is so completely wrought into the mind
and memory, that most of us can at once recall the incidents which
chequer the pilgrim's way, and realize their meaning; the Slough of
Despond, in which the man convinced of his guilt and fleeing from
the wrath to come, in his agonizing self-consciousness is in danger
of being swallowed up in despair; the Wicket Gate, by which he
enters on the strait and narrow way of holiness; the Interpreter's
House, with his visions and acted parables; the Wayside Cross, at
the sight of which the burden of guilt falls from the pilgrim's
back, and he is clothed with change of raiment; the Hill
Difficulty, which stands right in his way, and which he must
surmount, not circumvent; the lions which he has
surroundings of his allegory are part of his own every-day life,
and reproduce what he had been brought up amidst in his native
county, or had noticed in his tinker's wanderings. "Born and
bred," writes Kingsley, "in the monotonous Midland, he had no
natural images beyond the pastures and brooks, the town and country
houses, he saw about him." The Slough of Despond, with its
treacherous quagmire in the midst of the plain, into which a
wayfarer might heedlessly fall, with its stepping-stones half
drowned in mire; Byepathmeadow, promising so fair, with its stile
and footpath on the other side of the fence; the pleasant river
fringed with meadows, green all the year long and overshadowed with
trees; the thicket all overgrown with briars and thorns, where one
tumbled over a bush, another stuck fast in the dirt, some lost
their shoes in the mire, and others were fastened from behind with
the brambles; the high wall by the roadside over which the fruit
trees shot their boughs and tempted the boys with their unripe
plums; the arbour with its settle tempting the footsore traveller
to drowsiness; the refreshing spring at the bottom of Hill
Difficulty; all are evidently drawn from his own experience.
Bunyan, in his long tramps, had seen them all. He had known what
it was to be in danger of falling into a pit and being dashed to
pieces with Vain Confidence, of being drowned in the flooded
meadows with Christian and Hopeful; of sinking in deep water when
swimming over a river, going down and rising up half dead, and
needing all his companion's strength and skill to keep his head
above the stream. Vanity Fair is evidently drawn from the life.
The great yearly fair of Stourbridge, close to Cambridge, which
Bunyan had probably often visited in his tinker days, with its
streets of booths filled with "wares of all kinds from all
countries," its "shows, jugglings, cheats games, plays, fools,
apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind," its "great one
of the fair," its court of justice and power of judgment, furnished
him with the materials for his picture. Scenes like these he draws
with sharp defined outlines. When he had to describe what he only
knew by hearsay, his pictures are shadowy and cold. Never having
been very far from home, he had had no experience of the higher
types of beauty and grandeur in nature, and his pen moves in
fetters when he attempts to describe them. When his pilgrims come
to the Hill Difficulty and the Delectable Mountains, the difference
is at once seen. All his nobler imagery is drawn from Scripture.
As Hallam has remarked, "There is scarcely a circumstance or
metaphor in the Old Testament which does not find a place bodily
and literally in 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' and this has made his
imagination appear more creative than it really is."
It would but weary the reader to follow the details of a narrative
which is so universally known. Who needs to be told that in the
pilgrimage here described is represented in allegorical dress the
course of a human soul convinced of sin, struggling onwards to
salvation through the trials and temptations that beset its path to
its eternal home? The book is so completely wrought into the mind
and memory, that most of us can at once recall the incidents which
chequer the pilgrim's way, and realize their meaning; the Slough of
Despond, in which the man convinced of his guilt and fleeing from
the wrath to come, in his agonizing self-consciousness is in danger
of being swallowed up in despair; the Wicket Gate, by which he
enters on the strait and narrow way of holiness; the Interpreter's
House, with his visions and acted parables; the Wayside Cross, at
the sight of which the burden of guilt falls from the pilgrim's
back, and he is clothed with change of raiment; the Hill
Difficulty, which stands right in his way, and which he must
surmount, not circumvent; the lions which he has