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but he answered,-that where Scripture is silent, we ought to forbear our opinions; and so he forebore to affirm either for or against; the Scripture being altogether silent on this point." -Ibid.

I cannot part with Doe, without stating that he generally calls Bunyan," OUR Bunyan ;" and triumphs in the assurance that "the Champion of our age" will be quoted in the Pulpit, "to future ages," thus,-" The Great Convert Bunyan, said so and so." Such facts may well excuse Doe's omission of some of Bunyan's works, in the List he drew up.

It is said by some, that the genius of Bunyan so awed that miscreant Foote, the player, that he uttered one of the most eloquent eulogiums on the Pilgrim's Progress, ever pronounced. This eulogium was once repeated to Robert Hall, at Cambridge; but he declared it to be "as much above Foote, as it was unlike Foote." I cannot repeat it; and, therefore, have no right to give an opinion. Very bad men, however, have said splendid things of the best. Foote felt,

"How awful Goodness is,"

in the presence of Whitefield; and may have felt the same when perusing the Pilgrim.

But I must bring this gossip to a close. The only practical joke of Bunyan's, I ever heard of, was played off upon one of his friends, who was a cooper. He saw, on passing his shop, some tubs piled one above another, and threw them down. "How now, master Bunyan," said the cooper, "what harm do the tubs to you?" "Friend," said Bunyan, "have you not heard, that every tub should stand on its own bottom?"

CHAPTER XLVII.

BUNYAN'S GENIUS.

BUNYAN is the Shakspeare of theology. Like the bard of Avon, he had no equal among his contemporaries, and has no rival among his successors. Indeed no one thinks now of disputing the palm with Shakspeare and Bunyan it is disdistinction enough for modern ambition to be critically acquainted with their peculiar excellences, and feelingly alive to their characteristic beauties.

It is a singular fact, that while philosophers may be found, who think themselves qualified to improve upon Newton, neither the poets of the present age presume to vie with Shakspeare, nor the moralists to imitate Bunyan. Had the author of the Pilgrim's Progress "placed cherubim and a flaming sword" over the gates of ALLEGORY, it could not have been more effectually guarded, than it has been by his own success; that has planted in every bosom a living conviction of his lasting superiority in this department of literature. He has so endeared his name by the work which dignifies it, that the bare idea of "another pilgrim" is painful. Perhaps no one ever wished for a second, so completely is "the eye satisfied with seeing, and the ear with hearing" the first. Were an appeal made to the public at large upon this subject, their reply might be confidently anticipated to be:-"What can the man do who cometh after the king?" This is true fame, and it must be eternal, because Pilgrim embodies in himself, not the accidental, nor the occasional feelings of our nature, but the hereditary and essential ones. His soul is composed of portions from the spirits of all men. Were it possible to concentrate in one being the souls of mankind, so that they should form but a single consciousness, Pilgrim would be a correct miniature of the whole; for he is not an individual of our species; he is any man, and every man, by whom Christianity

has been, is, or will be felt. So long, therefore, as nature and grace remain the same, the fame of Bunyan is deathless : nothing short of a change in our species, from human to angelic, or to infernal, could destroy the interest of the Pil. grim's Progress; and even then, it would be interesting as the representative of a race which had been.

Upon the supposition, that any sinless world is ignorant of the moral process by which man is "made meet for the inheritance of the saints in light," this book, of all others, is best adapted to furnish the inhabitants of that world with information, and to interest them in our success. They could not mistake the generic character and condition of the human race, after reading it. This is more than could be said, either of Doddridge's Rise and Progress, or of Hall's Zion's Travel. ler, characteristic as these excellent works are. They are, indeed, better adapted than the Pilgrim to teach us the sober realities of personal religion; but both would leave a superior order of beings at a loss what to think of us; and for this reason;—the ordinary business of life is not sufficiently connected with the practice of godliness, to show the whole character of a Christian. In these books he is seen only in the closet, or in the sanctuary,-upon his knees, or in his chair; and his mind exhibited only while wrought upon by its own, or divine influence; and not as it is affected by public intercourse and conversation; whereas, Bunyan's Christian moves over the whole platform of real life,-fills up every hour of the day, and never disappears from morning till night. We are even made partners in his dreams, as well as companions of his walks. Not so with the Christian of Doddridge: we are only admitted into his company during the brief periods of retirement and devotion. We lose sight of him entirely until "the hour of prayer" return, and can only conjecture how he has been employed in the interval, by the cast of his next meditations. Owing to this, Doddridge's Rise and Progress would only exhibit to the inhabitants of another world, "the inner man" of a Christian; whereas Bunyan's Pilgrim would make them familiar with both the outward and inner man at once. This contrast will account, in some measure, for the superior interest excited in his behalf he is ever before us.

The world and the church have done justice, long ago, to the genius of Bunyan. He has obtained already, all the hearthomage which can be paid to an author, and stands in no need

either of a vindicator or an eulogist. The monument of his fame has not been built with hands; but, like the typic stone of Daniel," it has become a great mountain," by natural and unaided growth. For, with the exception of Cowper, no one has formally aided the triumph of Bunyan. He has had commentators, indeed; so have the Cartoons of Raphael; but both had gained the applause of the world before their beauties were pointed out by a critical wand :—like the sun, they revealed themselves by their own light, and reached their meridian tabernacle by "horses" of their own "fire." This is more than can be said of Shakspeare or of Milton. Indeed, judging from the efforts still making in their behalf, by lecturers or critics, one is tempted to suspect, that their admirers have a lurking fear, lest their favourite poets should sink in public estimation. Granting, however, that the only motive which influences modern critics, is, to do justice to our national poets, by acquainting every one with their beauties; surely the writings which can dispense even with this labour of love, and herald' themselves into general notice and admiration, must be of no ordinary character,-must have a charm peculiar to themselves. It would be worse than foolish to say, that critics do not think Bunyan worth analyzing: perhaps they do not; but the world think him worth reading and quoting; and he has gained, without assistance, both the kind and the degree of homage, which it is the object of criticism to exact for the poets. If it be "true fame to find his work in every cottage window," Bunyan has it:-his Pilgrim's Progress is an heir-loom in every family who read any thing. It is, therefore, in vain to insinuate the charge of fanaticism or cant against Bunyan; for, could it be substantiated from the very pages of his Pilgrim, it would only render his triumph more singular, because it would show, that his beauties are such, as not even his own hand could tarnish, nor his own foibles depreciate. Indeed, the more defects that ignorance and impertinence impute to the author, the more astonishing is his success, which, it seems, nothing can hinder.

The grand distinguishing characteristic between Bunyan and every other writer is, that almost all his admirers were made so whilst but children. No other genius, as yet, has had this fascination,-no other work beside the Pilgrim, this fame. The works which have immortalized others are, without exception, such as childhood can neither relish nor comprehend. Their chief merit is, that they amply gratify the maturity of

intellect required to grasp them; that they come up to, and exceed, the expectations of cultivated and expanded minds; that they fill the arms of ambition to the utmost. But, whilst "they have depths for the elephant to swim in," they have "no shallows in which the lamb can wade;" whereas, the Pilgrim is so constructed, as not only to interest minds of every age and order, but the very things which are "milk for babes," are actually "strong meat" to the same persons, when they become men. What is admired as history, in childhood, is admired as a mystery in youth; what is admired as ingenuity in manhood, is loved as experience in old age. The successive phases of our minds are, to the materials of the Pilgrim, what the reflectors of the kaleidoscope are to the motley cabi. net of atoms,-every revolution varies the figure, but none exhausts our curiosity; the last view is as fascinating as the first. The eye of childhood, and of old age, is equally dazzled and delighted by the same objects.

The annals of literature furnish no parallel to this fact. The Cyrus of Zenophon comes nearest to it; for it would be difficult to conceive how a school-boy could cease to feel in. terested, when he became a man, in the enchanting simplicity of that narrative. But still the interest is of an inferior kind, -rather intellectual than moral; rather literary than either. Whereas, the Pilgrim actually exercises the maturity of those minds it engaged in youth; and what was read for pleasure during many years, is read and remembered in the evening of life, both for pleasure and edification. This feature in the genius of Bunyan will become more familiar by a reference to works better known than the Cyropædia. The books which please us in childhood are in general "childish things," which we 66 put away" when we become men; or, if we ever recur to them in after life, it is to wonder at the trifles which interested us in early life. Even Watts' Divine Songs, although they do not sink in our estimation as we advance in years, do not rise in it, upon our own account. In regard to our own improvement, they are thrown aside, in common with real trifles, or brought into notice only for the sake of children. We expect to learn nothing from them by continued study. How different from all this is the growing interest we feel in Bunyan's Pilgrim! In childhood, we sit, as it were, on Christiana's knee, listening to the tale of his

"Hair-breadth escapes

By flood and field."

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