“A LIGHT SHINED IN THE PRISON”

Evening Star, Issue 19724, 26 November 1927, Page 2

“A LIGHT SHINED IN THE PRISON”

Hjscexija' tho present writer had Jij's thoughts tqnicd incidentally to prisons iukl prison s literature. Wo who are outside tho grim walls behind which goes oil “ t)|o sighing of the prisoners ” rarely think of them. We seo them once in a blue moon in tho dock or wjitch thow S9HI6- pr coining from tjs work to which ' they jigyp been assigujedj and'a passing thought is given them. But for tho rest they hardly cross our mjnf], ipijess wp are cither officially pr personally interested in tlmin. This is a misfortune alike for them and us. For in spite of tho great amelioration «f the prisoners- lob in recent times it is still top true, jjs pm of them Inis it in tjic pathetic ‘ Ballad of Beading Gaol ’: This, tpn, I know, and wise it were If each could know the same, That every prison tjiat moir build Is built with bricks of shame And barred with bars lest Christ should seo How men. their brothers niaijn. But if is not of prison reform that we wish to write just now. If is of the literature that has been produced in prison that wo are thinking of. When oho comes tp consider it one is astounded at both its quality and quantity. Indeed, jt may bo said that some pf the finest literature of the world was born in prison. Take, for instance, that of him from one of.whose prison records we borrow t)ip caption of this article, St. Paul. We know how what are called bis . ‘ Epistles ’ have influenced tho world. It has been so great that not u few Scholars think bp was tho real founder of Christianity. Wo need not go to that extreme. It is enough to say that Id’s interpretation of it in in’s ‘Epistles’ lias been the chief factor in the establishment of tho dogmas of the Christian faith. Some of tho greatest of these epistles, such as those to tho EbiJippians, Colossiaus, Ephesians, and 1 and 2 Timothy, etc., were written in prison. No other prison compositions?—indeed, it may even bo said, no compositions cither in or out of prison—have ever ccjuallcd some of these in the profundity of their thought or in their influence in shaping and .directing the course of Western civilisation. The epistle to the Pbilippians, for instance, is on© 0 f the sunniest apd most beautiful, bits of literature ever penned. And when wo say that it and tho others were composed ia prison we are not to think of that word prison in modern terms. Some of them at least were written in the Mamertiuo prison. Sallust describes tho appearance of them from their filth, their darkness, and their stench as “terrific.” Originally tho prisoner was let down into them by a hoje in tho roof. Ghostly and ghastly memories haunted the pestilential air. Hero Jugurtha was starved to death, the Emperor Vitcllius murdered, Applies Claudius killed himself, and from a staircase hero Cicero came forth and announced the death of Catalino conspirators to the people in tho Forum by the single word “ Vixerunt.” It was in such surroundings that, in all probability, St. Paul awaited the summons for death. And yet in spite of such surroundings this dauntless man ..composed or, dictated these wonderful loiters so full of light and peace and joy. It was in a Philippian prison, the history says, “Paul and Silas sang hymns unto God.” A noteworthy singing that. It was the first time that such singing had ever been heard in Europe. Audit was at midnight, and it was in a prison. That was the first contact of Christianity with Europe. It is a prophecy of all its after course. It opened the Hood gates of song. And it was tho writings of this prisoner that, next to its Founder, sot its*music loose over all the Western world. And it was done by a worn and fettered man, tho victim of gross perjury and tho helpless prey of contending enmities. Yet the keynote of it all is Joy, Endurance, Victory, says a competent authority. IE anyone compares the spirit of the host known classic writers in their adversity with that which was habitual to tho far deeper wrongs and far deadlier sufferings of St. Paul—if ho will compare the epistle to tho Pbilippians with the ‘ Tristia ’ of Ovid, the letters of Cicero from exile, or the treatise which Seneca dictated to Polybius from his banishment in Corsica—he may see, if hq will, the difference which Christianity has made in the happiness of man. * * * * We have dwelt at so great length with this most nqtable of prisoners, whose prison literature has so enriched the world, that wo shall have little space to do justice to the others. His writings soon began to leaven society. Here, e.g., is Perpetua, a young mother of Carthage. She is lodged in a horrible prison, but she writes; “The gaol became to me suddenly a palace, so that I liked better to be there than anywhere else.” She writes up her diary to the night before her delivery to the wild beasts, closing it thus; “ This is what I have done up to the day before the sports: how the sports themselves will go let someone else write if ho pleases.” The early history of Christianity supplies abundant testimonies such as this. Coming down through tho centuries wo light hero and there on one and another prisoner who turned their prison experience into literature that has enriched humanity. Smiles, in one of his books, gives a list of some twentyfive of these. There was Capanella, the Italian patriot, who languished for twenty-seven years in a Neapolitan I dungeon. Deprived of tho sun’s light, | he sought ,tho light of a higher Sun, j and in his celebrated ‘ Covotas Solis ’ jho drew a picture of the ideal State that has been tho jnspirer of tho dreams of many reformers. And, speaking of Italy, we have Mussolini, who is so much in evidence just now. A journalist, surprised to hear this blacksmith’s son quote Shelley, asked him where he got time to acquire languages and literature, and. Mussolini replied: “When I was in prison.” During his thirteen years’ incarceration in tho Tower Ilalcigh wrote his ‘ History of the World.’ Luther spent his prison hours in the Castle of Wartburg in. translating the Bible and in writing tho famous tracts and treatises with which he inundated Germany. So Tyndale, whose quater-centenary of his translation of the New Testament

was recently celebrated, did a great deal of Ids work in prison. Then wo have ifampden, Scldcn, I’r.vnno (a most voluminous writer), Wither (tiro poet), Ricli;ird Baxter, Penn, Prior, Lovelace, with his'

Stopo walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage, and Samuel Rutherford.

Them 9Ff> flipcc other .celebrated names that deserve a paragraph to themselves, because of the immortality of their 'works. There is, first, Cervantes, with his immortal ‘Don Quixote,’ which restored to Spain the universal empire she had lost. In spite of Buskin’s adverse criticism, we agree with Lowell that “a, character so absolutely, perfect as that of Lon Quixote in conception and delineation, eg psychologically true, so full of whimsical inconsistencies, all combining to produce an impression of perfect coherence, is not to he found in fiction.” There is, perhaps, in our own literature one book that may stand comparison with ‘ Ron Quixote ‘Robinson Crusoe,’. Naturally, it is better known to us. It tells us in a fascinating way what plight happen to anyone. And both ; these- books are gaol literature, so to speak. Cervantes wrote his, for the most part, while incarcerated in a debtors’ prison, and Defoe produced ‘ llobinsop Crusoe ’ while imprisoned for his political opinions. Ho also, while thus circumstanced, projected his ‘ Review,’ which set the fashion for the ‘Spectators,’ ‘Tatlers,’ ‘Guardians,’ et hoc genus omne, with which wo are familiar in modern times. The third member of this trinity, of the immortals is Runyan. Of him and his work wo need say nothing hero; we have already had occasion to do that. Fronde docs not exaggerate when'he says ‘ The Pilgrim’s Progress ’ is unequalled, and never will be equalled. And it, ns wc know, was also the product of the prison. ME * * Wo arc obliged to omit other names associated with prison literature. When wo come down to more modern times the output is perhaps not so remarkable, for fewer people are sent to prison now. Wc have space to refer to one example only. It is that of Oscar Wildo. A generation ago or so Wildo was one of the most prominent names in the literary world. His life story is an indescribable tragedy. From the summits of fame lie sank into the gutters. From being an idol of society ho passed in behind prison bars, the world forgetting and by the world forgot. While there at least two products ol his pen should give him a place among the seats of the mighty. The first is the ‘ Ballad of Reading Gaol.’ His friend Miss Marburg tells that she one day got this poem in bis own handwriting with a request that she would try to dispose of it and get him a few pounds, so as to buy some things he greatly needed in his prison confinement. Rut Wilde’s stock had gone down in the English market. No newspaper or magazine would touch it. She finally managed to dispose of it for 2uodol to the New York ‘ World.’ It was first published in England in 1898 under tho title ‘ C.C.d.’ Since then it has gone into edition after edition. It well deserves its popularity. It is unquestionably the greatest poetic product of gaol literature that has ever appeared. It puts into jnqsfc poignant musio the dumb, unuttertd feelings of many a prisoner’s soul, /it is good to think that the prisoners’ lot has been somewhat improved since Wilde sang their bitter cry. it is only what is good in Man That wastes and withers there,

l’a!c anguish ke^ps-1 ho 'heavy gate And the Warder is Despair. Bnfc grind; and sad as is this ballad, greater still is ‘Do Profumlis.’ It reminds one of the cry nus of the depths of some of the old Hebrew poets. It is written in, that literary stylo of which Wilde was a master. Ho tells how he had come to be in that degradation. Ho went out into life to cat of all the trees in the garden. Ho did. “ There was no pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose paths to the sound of lutes.” And it ended like the prodigal of old with the swine. But, like that prodigal, also, ho came to himself. Sorrow and suffering did their work. “While for the first year of my imprisonment T did nothing else, and can remember doing nothing else, but wring my hands in impotent despair and say ‘ What an ending!’ Now I try to say to myself, and sometimes when I am not torturing myself, do really and sincerely say ‘ What a beginning! What a wonderful beginning!’” It may really bo so. We should bav© liked to say much about this beautiful and most poignantly pathetic book. But our space is done. It is good to think that since Wilde wrote “the sighing of the prisoners” has found sympathetic ears. But Christendom as a whole needs still to give heed to its Founder’s warning: “ I was sick and in prison, and ye visited Me not,”