incongruity；　and　the　field　preacher　who　achieved　virtue　and
  courage　by　identifying　himself　with　the　purpose　of　the　world　as
  he　understood　it。　The　contrast　is　enormous：　Bunyan's　coward　stirs
  your　blood　more　than　Shakespear's　hero；　who　actually　leaves　you
  cold　and　secretly　hostile。　You　suddenly　see　that　Shakespear；　with
  all　his　flashes　and　divinations；　never　understood　virtue　and
  courage；　never　conceived　how　any　man　who　was　not　a　fool　could；
  like　Bunyan's　hero；　look　back　from　the　brink　of　the　river　of
  death　over　the　strife　and　labor　of　his　pilgrimage；　and　say　〃yet
  do　I　not　repent　me〃；　or；　with　the　panache　of　a　millionaire；
  bequeath　〃my　sword　to　him　that　shall　succeed　me　in　my　pilgrimage；
  and　my　courage　and　skill　to　him　that　can　get　it。〃　This　is　the
  true　joy　in　life；　the　being　used　for　a　purpose　recognized　by
  yourself　as　a　mighty　one；　the　being　thoroughly　worn　out　before
  you　are　thrown　on　the　scrap　heap；　the　being　a　force　of　Nature
  instead　of　a　feverish　selfish　little　clod　of　ailments　and
  grievances　complaining　that　the　world　will　not　devote　itself　to
  making　you　happy。　And　also　the　only　real　tragedy　in　life　is　the
  being　used　by　personally　minded　men　for　purposes　which　you
  recognize　to　be　base。　All　the　rest　is　at　worst　mere　misfortune　or
  mortality：　this　alone　is　misery；　slavery；　hell　on　earth；　and　the
  revolt　against　it　is　the　only　force　that　offers　a　man's　work　to
  the　poor　artist；　whom　our　personally　minded　rich　people　would　so
  willingly　employ　as　pandar；　buffoon；　beauty　monger；
  sentimentalizer　and　the　like。
  It　may　seem　a　long　step　from　Bunyan　to　Nietzsche；　but　the
  difference　between　their　conclusions　is　purely　formal。　Bunyan's
  perception　that　righteousness　is　filthy　rags；　his　scorn　for　Mr
  Legality　in　the　village　of　Morality；　his　defiance　of　the　Church
  as　the　supplanter　of　religion；　his　insistence　on　courage　as　the
  virtue　of　virtues；　his　estimate　of　the　career　of　the
  conventionally　respectable　and　sensible　Worldly　Wiseman　as　no
  better　at　bottom　than　the　life　and　death　of　Mr　Badman：　all　this；
  expressed　by　Bunyan　in　the　terms　of　a　tinker's　theology；　is　what
  Nietzsche　has　expressed　in　terms　of　post…Darwinian；
  post…Schopenhaurian　philosophy；　Wagner　in　terms　of　polytheistic
  mythology；　and　Ibsen　in　terms　of　mid…XIX　century　Parisian
  dramaturgy。　Nothing　is　new　in　these　matters　except　their
  novelties：　for　instance；　it　is　a　novelty　to　call　Justification　by
  Faith　〃Wille；〃　and　Justification　by　Works　〃Vorstellung。〃　The　sole
  use　of　the　novelty　is　that　you　and　I　buy　and　read　Schopenhaur's
  treatise　on　Will　and　Representation　when　we　should　not　dream　of
  buying　a　set　of　sermons　on　Faith　versus　Works。　At　bottom　the
  controversy　is　the　same；　and　the　dramatic　results　are　the　same。
  Bunyan　makes　no　attempt　to　present　his　pilgrims　as　more　sensible
  or　better　conducted　than　Mr　Worldly　Wiseman。　Mr　W。　W。's　worst
  enemies；　as　Mr　Embezzler；　Mr　Never…go…to…Church…on…Sunday；　Mr　Bad
  Form；　Mr　Murderer；　Mr　Burglar；　Mr　Co…respondent；　Mr　Blackmailer；
  Mr　Cad；　Mr　Drunkard；　Mr　Labor　Agitator　and　so　forth；　can　read　the
  Pilgrim's　Progress　without　finding　a　word　said　against　them；
  whereas　the　respectable　people　who　snub　them　and　put　them　in
  prison；　such　as　Mr　W。W。　himself　and　his　young　friend　Civility；
  Formalist　and　Hypocrisy；　Wildhead；　Inconsiderate；　and　Pragmatick
  （who　were　clearly　young　university　men　of　good　family　and　high
  feeding）；　that　brisk　lad　Ignorance；　Talkative；　By…Ends　of
  Fairspeech　and　his　mother…in…law　Lady　Feigning；　and　other
  reputable　gentlemen　and　citizens；　catch　it　very　severely。　Even
  Little　Faith；　though　he　gets　to　heaven　at　last；　is　given　to
  understand　that　it　served　him　right　to　be　mobbed　by　the　brothers
  Faint　Heart；　Mistrust；　and　Guilt；　all　three　recognized　members　of
  respectable　society　and　veritable　pillars　of　the　law。　The　whole
  allegory　is　a　consistent　attack　on　morality　and　respectability；
  without　a　word　that　one　can　remember　against　vice　and　crime。
  Exactly　what　is　complained　of　in　Nietzsche　and　Ibsen；　is　it　not？
  And　also　exactly　what　would　be　complained　of　in　all　the
  literature　which　is　great　enough　and　old　enough　to　have　attained
  canonical　rank；　officially　or　unofficially；　were　it　not　that
  books　are　admitted　to　the　canon　by　a　compact　which　confesses
  their　greatness　in　consideration　of　abrogating　their　meaning；　so
  that　the　reverend　rector　can　agree　with　the　prophet　Micah　as　to
  his　inspired　style　without　being　committed　to　any　complicity　in
  Micah's　furiously　Radical　opinions。　Why；　even　I；　as　I　force
  myself；　pen　in　hand；　into　recognition　and　civility；　find　all　the
  force　of　my　onslaught　destroyed　by　a　simple　policy　of
  non…resistance。　In　vain　do　I　redouble　the　violence　of　the
  language　in　which　I　proclaim　my　heterodoxies。　I　rail　at　the
  theistic　credulity　of　Voltaire；　the　amoristic　superstition　of
  Shelley；　the　revival　of　tribal　soothsaying　and　idolatrous　rites
  which　Huxley　called　Science　and　mistook　for　an　advance　on　the
  Pentateuch；　no　less　than　at　the　welter　of　ecclesiastical　and
  professional　humbug　which　saves　the　face　of　the　stupid　system　of
  violence　and　robbery　which　we　call　Law　and　Industry。　Even
  atheists　reproach　me　with　infidelity　and　anarchists　with　nihilism
  because　I　cannot　endure　their　moral　tirades。　And　yet；　instead　of
  exclaiming　〃Send　this　inconceivable　Satanist　to　the　stake；〃　the
  respectable　newspapers　pith　me　by　announcing　〃another　book　by
  this　brilliant　and　thoughtful　writer。〃　And　the　ordinary　citizen；
  knowing　that　an　author　who　is　well　spoken　of　by　a　respectable
  newspaper　must　be　all　right；　reads　me；　as　he　reads　Micah；　with
  undisturbed　edification　from　his　own　point　of　view。　It　is
  narrated　that　in　the　eighteenseventies　an　old　lady；　a　very　devout
  Methodist；　moved　from　Colchester　to　a　house　in　the　neighborhood
  of　the　City　Road；　in　London；　where；　mistaking　the　Hall　of　Science
  for　a　chapel；　she　sat　at　the　feet　of　Charles　Bradlaugh　for　many
  years；　entranced　by　his　eloquence；　without　questioning　his
  orthodoxy　or　moulting　a　feather　of　her　faith。　I　fear　I　small　be
  defrauded　of　my　just　martyrdom　in　the　same　way。
  However；　I　am　digressing；　as　a　man　with　a　grievance　always　does。
  And　after　all；　the　main　thing　in　determining　the　artistic　quality
  of　a　book　is　not　the　opinions　it　propagates；　but　the　fact　that
  the　writer　has　opinions。　The　old　lady　from　Colchester　was　right
  to　sun　her　simple　soul　in　the　energetic　radiance　of　Bradlaugh's
  genuine　beliefs　and　disbeliefs　rather　than　in　the　chill　of　such
  mere　painting　of　light　and　heat　as　elocution　and　convention　can
  achieve。　My　contempt　for　belles　lettres；　and　for　amateurs　who
  become　the　heroes　of　the　fanciers　of　literary　virtuosity；　is　not
  founded　on　any　illusion　of　mind　as　to　the　permanence　of　those
  forms　of　thought　（call　them　opinions）　by　which　I　strive　to
  communicate　my　bent　to　my　fellows。　To　younger　men　they　are
  already　outmoded；　for　though　they　have　no　more　lost　their　logic
  than　an　eighteenth　century　pastel　has　lost　its　drawing　or　its
  color；　yet；　like　the　pastel；　they　grow　indefinably　shabby；　and
  will　grow　shabbier　until　they　cease　to　count　at　all；　when　my
  books　will　either　perish；　or；　if　the　world　is　still　poor　enough
  to　want　them；　will　have　to　stand；　with　Bunyan's；　by　quite
  amorphous　qualities　of　temper　and　energy。　With　this　conviction　I
  cannot　be　a　bellettrist。　No　doubt　I　must　recognize；　as　even　the
  Ancient　Mariner　did；　that　I　must　tell　my　story　entertainingly　if
  I　am　to　hold　the　wedding　guest　spellbound　in　spite　of　the　siren
  sounds　of　the　loud　bassoon。　But　〃for　art's　sake〃　alone　I　would
  not　face　the　toil　of　writing　a　single　sentence。　I　know　that　there
  are　men　who；　having　nothing　to　say　and　nothing　to　write；　are
  nevertheless　so　in　love　with　oratory　and　with　literature　that
  they　keep　desperately　repeating　as　much　as　they　can　understand　of
  what　others　have　said　or　written　aforetime。　I　know　that　the
  leisurely　tricks　which　their　want　of　conviction　leaves　them　free
  to　play　with　the　diluted　and　misapprehended　message　supply　them
  with　a　pleasant　parlor　game　which　they　call　style。　I　can　pity
  their　dotage　and　even　sympathize　with　their　fancy。　But　a　true
  original　style　is　never　achieved　for　its　own　sake：　a　man　may　pay
  from　a　shilling　to　a　guinea；　according　to　his　means；　to　see；
  hear；　or　read　another　man's　act　of　genius；　but　he　will　not　pay
  with　his　whole　life　and　soul　to　become　a　mere　virtuoso　in
  literature；　exhibiting　an　accomplishment　which　will　not　even　make
  money　for　him；　like　fiddle　playing。　Effectiveness　of　assertion　is
  the　Alpha　and　Omega　of　style。　He　who　has　nothing　to　assert　has　no
  style　and　can　have　none：　he　who　has　something　to　assert　will　go
  as　far　in　power　of　style　as　its　momentousness　and　his　conviction
  will　carry　him。　Disprove　his　assertion　after　it　is　made；　yet　its
  style　remains。　Darwin　has　no　more　destroyed　the　style　of　Job　nor
  of　Handel　than　Martin　Luther　destroyed　the　style　of　Giotto。　All
  the　assertions　get　disproved　sooner　or　later；　and　so　we　find　the
  world　full　of　a　magnificent　debris　of　artistic　fossils；　with　the
  matter…of…fact　credibility　gone　clean　out　of　them；　but　the　form
  still　splendid。　And　that　is　why　the　old　masters　play　the　deuce
  with　our　mere　susceptibles。　Your　Royal　Academician　thinks　he　can
  get　the　style　of　Giotto　without　Giotto's　beliefs；　an