but nothing can take away its interest as a treasury of pre- cious English. Bunyan had, as Macaulay aptly says, no suspicion that he was producing a masterpiece. He was a simple man, with only the rudiments of an education, writing for men simpler than himself, so that there is hardly a word in the whole tale which would not have been readily intelligible to a Bedfordshire carter or plough-boy. It is a rough homespun diction, made up largely of Anglo-Saxon roots and abounding in monosyllables. Solecisms and crudities are frequent. But, for all this, it becomes in Bun- yan's hands an instrument of wide compass, capable not only of graphic force, of humorous directness, but also of very tender and gorgeous lyrical effects. Much of its power is due, of course, to the fact that Bunyan's memory, like that of so many of his contemporaries, was stored with the diction of the Bible; but much, too, comes from the nervous blunt speech of the Midland peasantry. The blend produced a vehicle of expression thoroughly strong and supple, the very crudities of which, mellowed by time and disuse, take on an air of rich ingenuous charm. For any one who has the sense of language, to whom words have a subtle individuality of their own, who can linger over and taste a phrase, coaxing its flavor to the palate as if it were an old wine, the pages of The Pilgrim's Progress will possess an enduring fascination.
A word remains to be said of the general temper and atmosphere of the book. The grim and bitterly repressive aspects of Puritanism have been dwelt upon to the preju- dice of its singular brightness and warmth at moments of expansion. In Grace Abounding, Bunyan tells of seeing one day in Bedford three or four poor women " sitting in the sun and talking about the things of God," and of noti- cing with envy their joy, and " the pleasantness of their scrip- ture language." He shortly afterwards had a vision which may have served as a starting-point of suggestion for The Pilgrim's Progress; he saw these women sitting on a sunny
