Critical, Historical, and Miscellaneous Essays; Vol. 2: With a Memoir and IndexMacaulay, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Baron
Philosophy
Critical, Historical, and Miscellaneous Essays; Vol. 2: With a Memoir and Index
Macaulay, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Baron
English literature -- History and criticism; Great Britain -- History
The history of Bunyan is the history of a most excitable mind in an age
of excitement. By most of his biographers he has been treated with gross
injustice. They have understood in a popular sense all those strong
terms of self-condemnation which he employed in a theological sense.
They have, therefore, represented him as an abandoned wretch reclaimed
by means almost miraculous, or, to use their favourite metaphor, “as
a brand plucked from the burning.” Mr. Ivimey calls him the depraved
Bunyan and the wicked tinker of Elstow. Surely Mr. Ivimey ought to
have been too familiar with the bitter accusations which the most pious
people are in the habit, of bringing against themselves, to understand
literally all the strong expressions which are to be found in the Grace
Abounding. It is quite clear, as Mr. Southey most justly remarks, that
Bunyan never was a vicious man. He married very early; and he solemnly
declares that he was strictly faithful to his wife. He does not appear
to have been a drunkard. He owns, indeed, that, when a boy, he never
spoke without an oath. But a single admonition cured him of this bad
habit for life; and the cure must have been wrought early; for at
eighteen he was in the army of the Parliament; and, if he had
carried the vice of profaneness into that service, he would
doubtless have received something more than an admonition from
Serjeant Bind-their-kings-in-chains, or Captain
Hew-Agag-in-pieces-before-the-Lord. Bell-ringing and playing at hockey
on Sundays seem to have been the worst vices of this depraved tinker.
They would have passed for virtues with Archbishop Laud. It is quite
clear that, from a very early age, Bunyan was a man of a {261}strict
life and of a tender conscience. “He had been,” says Mr. Southey, “a
blackguard.” Even this we think too hard a censure. Bunyan was not, we
admit, so fine a gentleman as Lord Digby; but he was a blackguard
no otherwise than as every labouring man that ever lived has been a
blackguard. Indeed Mr. Southey acknowledges this. “Such he might have
been expected to be by his birth, breeding, and vocation. Scarcely
indeed, by possibility, could he have been otherwise.” A man whose
manners and sentiments are decidedly below those of his class deserves
to be called a blackguard. But it is surely unfair to apply so strong
a word of reproach to one who is only what the great mass of every
community must inevitably be.
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