IMPRISONED, YET UNFETTERED
Though men may keep my outward man
Within their locks and bars,
Yet by the faith of Christ I can
Mount higher than the stars.
“GOOD my Lord, have pity upon us! My husband hath lain since January in prison, and it is now August; let him be heard at the bar, I pray thee.”
“I will look to it, woman," replied Justice Hale, "what is thy husband's name?”
“John Bunyan, my Lord," replied Elizabeth Bunyan. "I have twice before prayed to your Lordship to have him called to plead. When, last April, King Charles was crowned they would not let him go free as they did worse men.”
“He is a hot-spirited fellow, my Lord," interposed Sir Henry Chester, "a very firebrand setting fire to the stubble, of which we have enough in these parts.”
“I will advise of it, good woman," said Judge Hale; "and now forbear.”
But, as with a sad heart the noble woman went into the crowd, the high sheriff laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Be of stout heart," said he, "when the assize is over come to the Swan chamber, and there speak to Judge Hale; who knows but ye may then succeed.”
“Aye, that will I, and may God bless thee, and thine for speaking kindly to me in the time of my distress, and when others frowned upon me; may it come back to thee a hundredfold.”
A day or two afterward, as Judge Hale sat in the Swan chamber with a great throng of local gentry and justices, Elizabeth Bunyan pressed forward and spoke to the judge.
“I make bold, my Lord, to come about my husband; he was put in prison before there was any law forbidding his meetings; and they never asked him if he were guilty or no.”
“He was convicted lawfully, that I witness," interposed Sir George Blundell; "but for the matter of that, vermin need no law.”
“Do you think we can do what we list?" interposed Justice Twisden, "get thee gone to thy business. Thou art as arrant a traitor as thy husband.”
“My Lord, he has not been lawfully convicted," said the brave woman, fixing her eyes upon the great judge. "Wilt thou not look into his case?”
“He is convicted! He was convicted!” uttered Sir George Blundell.
“It is recorded! It is recorded!" exclaimed Sir Henry Chester; "and a blessing it is to rid the country of such a pest. My Lord," he said, turning to Sir Matthew Hale, "ye know not the man; he is more fit for Bedlam than Bedford, and should not be let free; besides, it is recorded! It is recorded!" "If it is, the record is not true," replied Elizabeth. "My Lord, he was not lawfully convicted”
“What is thine husband?" asked Sir Matthew Hale “A tinker, forsooth! A pretty fellow to make this stir about!" exclaimed Sir George Blundell; and a titter of approval went through the room “Yea, my Lord, a tinker!" said Elizabeth, drawing herself up and facing the throng; "but because he is a tinker ought he to be denied justice?”
“Why does he not stick to his tinkering, then?” asked Sir Henry Chester.
“My Lord, all he craves is to be allowed to follow his calling, and so to provide for his four young children.”
“Hast thou four children?" asked the judge.
“Nay, my Lord; I am but mother-in-law to them, one of whom is a blind girl. I have been married but two years, and when I heard they had cast my husband into jail, I was amazed at the news, and my baby died.”
“Alas! poor woman," said the judge pitifully; "but I cannot help thee. It is recorded, and there is no remedy but for thee to apply to the King, or to sue out his pardon, or to get a writ of error; but the writ or error will be the cheapest.”
“Send her away, my Lord; she will prate till the moon rises," interposed Sir Henry Chester. "Stand back, woman, the judge is busy!”
With head erect, and features that betrayed in their grand dignity none of the fierce sorrow below, the tinker's wife walked despised through the fashionable throng, many of whom drew aside their garments lest they should by chance touch the simple dress of the noble woman. Unheeding them all, Elizabeth Bunyan swept from the room to give vent to her grief before going to the prison, which was to be her husband's home for six long years without a break.
Nearly twelve years have now rolled by, and the prisoner is giving his bundle of tagged laces, made by Bunyan for the support of his family, to the blind maiden who has blossomed into a beautiful counterpart of her gentle mother, now in Heaven-for at that period prisoners had to provide their own maintenance, and the tinker had few friends who could spare much for the little family in St. Cuthbert's Parish.
“Father, may I hear you preach?" asked Mary. "They have brought in some sixty people, who were taken at a preaching in a wood. The minister, who sat on his horse that he might escape the better, was knocked off his horse, and they brought him in insensible and nigh dead, Elizabeth says, flung like a sack over the saddle, and they took good Mr. Donne out of a chamber in which he lay hidden by bullets.”
“Nay, beloved, the preaching will not be till morn; but ye can take this book home with you, it is A Defense of the Doctrine of Justification by Faith. Your mother will read it to you. And now, God be with ye and shield ye from insult as ye go home. Go down Jail Lane, and I will watch thee from the window.
The prisoner was doing so, when he heard his name pronounced, and turned to hear himself addressed by a man who had entered the apartment.
“Don't ye know me, Bunyan?" said the incomer; "I am your old play-fellow Rogers. Alack that we should meet thus.”
“And why are ye here, John?" said Bunyan, grasping his visitor's hand. "Are you turned Bunyanite too?”
“Would I were what I am not, neighbor. I am not a praying man; but in a brawl I hurt a man who died; and here I am as a felon.
Johnny White allowed me to spend an hour with thee by reason of a trifle I gave him.
But are thou not fearsome in this awful place?”
“Nay, for I have many friends here," replied Bunyan. "Thomas Marsom, who was flung into jail by the malice of an enemy, now stays to keep me company. Then many come to consult me about their souls; and at times we preach in our day room. And oftentimes the word of God is very sweet to my soul.”
“They have made thee a parson, then, neighbor?.’ Tis said thou hast taken the place of John Gifford.”
“It is true; but it is only now and then I can get out. Since I was arrested the second time I have not been beyond the iron wicket, and I feel at times like a bowed reed. Oh, Rogers, to look upon the green fields again, and walk through the growing corn!”
“Well, I admire thy pluck, but I cannot understand thee, I must confess. What harm would it do thee to leave off preaching?”
“I dare not, Rogers; the souls of men are dear to me, and when I look upon a human face I long to know that it is Christ's. Oh, friend, why art thou not saved?”
“Would that I were, for I am very unhappy at times. It seems often as if the dead man's face would never go from my sight. Shall I see him after death? I cannot sleep at night, or rest at all by day. What shall I do to find peace?”
“There is naught to be done, friend, but to trust Christ. This long weary time I have trusted Him, and I know all is well. Why not carry thy sin to the feet of Jesus, and ask Him to remove and forgive it? Believe me, there is no peace except sin be forgiven, and thou art made His child by faith in His blood.”
“But how is this to be? 'Tis easy for thee, no doubt, but to me all this task is dark beyond belief. 'Tis worse than striving to walk through the Dell at midnight without a lantern, with no moon or stars!”
“When my sins began to press on me, I strove to earn Heaven by my doings, and verily thought I pleased God as well as any man in England," said Bunyan. "But I found that I was all wrong, that my doings were of no account in God's sight, and that what I needed was pardon and cleansing and that these were by the Holy Ghost. Oh, how I longed to know myself forgiven, to be sure that my name was in the Lamb's book of life. Methought to know that was better than to be King of England. I tried this way and that way, but I was like a horse in the pond, there was no way out but by the gate; but this I found not. At last, when I was well-nigh distracted with the agony I felt for fear I had scorned away my day of grace, as I was walking through the copse and listening to the notes of the birds that made the wood ring with the music, lo, I thought upon that mighty word which went to my heart like balm: 'O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself; but from Me is thy help found,' and, alack, I bemoaned my folly, and turned to God for help! I saw it was not my doings, after all, but taking what Christ had perfectly done for me, and then was I at perfect peace, and enjoyed rest in Him.”
“But I never felt this terror for sin, friend Bunyan. I, it is true, feel at times sorry, when I think of the past. There are things which make me shudder at myself, and feel as if I could beat myself blue at my folly in sinning so; but after a while it passes, and I no more think about the sins gone by than I do about the toys I used when a baby. What can I do to mend this?”
“I do not see, neighbor, that all need the same experience. One time I thought so," said Bunyan, "but now God has taught me that one man is sore vexed in his mind, and another feels not so grievously; that while all must repent, and should feel conscious of sins, it is not our repentance, but the work of Christ that saves us. Many have come to me while in prison, and I have watched closely the workings of grace in each heart like a cunning surgeon marketh the effects of a medicine upon his patients; and in no two does grace work the same. My daughter, the blind maiden, first opened my eyes upon this matter, and the doings of our Lord to Peter convinced me of the truth of what I say. For, mind you, the look of Christ which told the love of Jesus made Peter repent and mend his ways. When a man feels that God loves him and realizes the sweet love of Christ, if he does not repent of his sins and mourn for them, I am mistaken. Do not try to make yourself feel, friend; but strive by faith to take hold of Christ, to realize how He loves you, and then, when that truth holds control of your heart, you must fain mourn like the wounded dove.”
“Well, John, I have loved thee long time, and love thee none the less that thou art far above me; but I will think on what thou hast said, and mayhap I may come to the peace that seems ever to rule thee. Thou art like a meadow in August sunset, when all is quiet beauty and rich rest.”
“Nay, old friend, thou dost not know me. When I first came to prison I was bold in God. I toiled at my craft to maintain myself and help keep my dear ones from starving. I preached in the prison, and many a time there hath stirred within me that which is like the burden of the old prophets of God. I printed many books that, blessed be God, have been a benefit to many, but when in the dark of the night I lay on my straw, and was well-nigh stifled by the heat, I was like one borne down with my thoughts, and started as if stung when I thought of my dear ones, alone in the world. They told me not, but I know how the world looks in scorn on all who are poor, and I knew how to the tinker's scorn was now added the name of fanatic. But I rose above these sorrows, like a bird that goes high over the clouds into the clear sunlight of God, and in the main I was kept in the peace of Christ. But after I had been set free at six years' end they pounced upon me again. William Swinton, whom I had succored, whose father is indebted to me, hounded the justices on to me, and they stripped me of all my goods and put me into prison. They went into the house of Arthur, the pipe maker, and carried off all the wood, leaving him none to burn a kiln of pipes ready set, though the poor man begged them not to leave his children to starve. They charged him 5 for keeping his door locked, and O that was named in the warrant. But they took far more than the £11 of goods. At Thomas Cooper's, the heel maker, they also seized three loads of wood that had been especially cut for his working, so that he had naught to make his heels and lasts of, and no money to buy more.
“When they went to John Bardolf's malthouse the mob cried them shame; and one of the ribald sort fixed a calf's tail upon the officer's back, and derided him with mocking shouts. Oh, it went so to my heart to come back to prison, and here I have lain now this second six years save three months, alas for me! At times it seems as if I am borne down under the load of my grief, so that I can write less than I did; but I strive to rise above such feelings that after all I feel to be in sin as amounting to distrust and dishonor to God.”
“No wonder! Twelve years of imprisonment in such a den as this are enough to crush the life out of one. I shall die if I have twelve weeks of it," said Rogers. "But I must go back for fear they let me not leave that felon's part again, and I love to talk with thee, my white boy.”
The prisoner, as he was left alone, opened his Bible, marked by use and stained with tears, and sat reading until his countenance burned with poetic fire and light, and it was evident that the prison walls had no power over the soaring spirit that was radiant in the sunlight, and splendor, and beauty of Heaven.
As has been said by another, "His soul swells beyond the measure of its cell. It is not a rude lamp that glimmers on his table. It is no longer the dark Ouse that rolls its sluggish waters at his feet. His spirit has no sense of bondage. No iron has entered into his soul. Chainless and swift, he has soared to the Delectable Mountains; the light of Heaven is around him; the river is the one, clear as crystal, which floweth from the throne of God and of the Lamb; breezes of Paradise blow freshly across it, fanning his temples and stirring his hair. From the summit of the hill Clear he catches rarer splendors—the New Jerusalem sleeps in its eternal noon; the shining ones are there, each one a crowned harper unto God! This is the land that is afar off, and that is the King in His beauty; until, prostrate beneath the insufferable splendor, the dreamer falls upon his knees and sobs away his agony of gladness in an ecstasy of prayer and praise.”
In the damp "den" as he truly called the cell of Bedford jail, Bunyan wrote the first part of The Pilgrim's Progress, one of those delightful prison books that have been the gift of sanctified captive genius to the world. The quiet of the jail seems to have disciplined and calmed his imagination.