The Life Story of John Bunyan: With Historical Illustrations
James Joseph Ellis
Table of Contents
Life Story of John Bunyan
John Bunyan's Portrait
So far as is known, there is only one other authentic portrait of the great Christian writer in existence. It is the one which was painted in 1685 by Thomas Sadler, when Bunyan was fifty-six years of age, and which represents him in a somewhat more genial, but less manly aspect. It was acquired by the National Portrait Gallery of London right at the turn of the twentieth century.
The border on the cover, depicting scenes from The Pilgrim's Progress, is taken from another old edition of Bunyan's works published in 1871.
An interesting word-picture found in one of the old volumes reads as follows: “He appeared in countenance to be of a stern and rough temper; but in his conversation mild and affable, not given to loquacity, much discourse in company, unless some urgent occasion required it; observing never to boast of himself, or his parts, but rather seem low in his own eyes, and submit himself to the judgment of others; abhorring lying and swearing, being just in all that lay in his power to his word; not seeming to revenge injuries, loving to reconcile differences, and make friendships with all. He had a sharp quick eye, accomplished with an excellent discerning of persons, being of good judgment and quick wit. As for his person, he was tall of stature, strong boned, though not corpulent, somewhat of a ruddy face, with sparkling eyes, wearing his hair on his upper lip, after the old British fashion; his hair reddish, but in his latter days, time had sprinkled it with gray; his nose well set, but not declining or bending, and his mouth moderately large; his forehead something high, and his habits always plain and honest. And thus have we impartially described the internal and external parts of a person whose death hath been much regretted" (Vale).
He Being Dead yet Speaketh”
The distinguished English writer of the nineteenth century, Lord Macaulay, evaluated John Bunyan thus, "Though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative faculty in a very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the Paradise Lost, the other The Pilgrim's Progress.... The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command over the English language.... There is no book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the fame of the old unpolluted English language, no book which shows so well how rich that language is in its own proper wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed.”
The writings of John Bunyan are the one great work that is found in the palace of the king, and on the shelf of the poorest of homes. Children are entranced with its interesting story. Men without benefit of schooling are attracted to its pages. Learned men feel the spell of its genius. The young Christian, just starting on his course, reads it for instruction and encouragement. The aged saint enjoys it as well, and testifies to the accuracy with which Bunyan has pictured the serene joys of Beulah land.
The Pilgrim's Progress is without question the most extraordinary book in the English language outside of the Bible. There is scarcely a language into which it has not been translated. It seems to answer the deep spiritual yearning of the human race.
The author himself, however, is no less interesting than his immortal dream. A study of his life enables a person better to understand and to appreciate his writings. In a most remarkable way Bunyan's personal story his own spiritual conflicts and triumphs is incorporated into the experiences of his personalities in The Pilgrim's Progress.
Much of the material in this well-written story of Bunyan's life is taken from his own descriptions and testimonies. We do not merely read a biography. We see a life. We are moved by Bunyan's words as by a cry of agony or a shout of joy uttered at our side. A human heart is uttering itself, not a musical tone or an oratorical inflection. Throughout the pages of this book, as in his writings, we hear Bunyan cry out to men to escape the city of Destruction, where I lived; to roll off their burdens at the cross, where I found pardon; to avoid Doubting Castle, where I was ensnared; to resist the Devil, with whom I contended in the Valley of Humiliation; to eschew the allurements of Vanity Fair, which I have seen to "bite like a serpent and sting like an adder;" to seek the instruction and delights of the Delectable Mountains, where I have drunk of the river of God's pleasures!
Bunyan was a Christian man in constant communion with God, whether in prison, in church, at home, or out in the world. All his writings bear testimony to it. He had received "a mouth and a wisdom" from God. He expressed himself, henceforth, not only with eloquence, learning, logic, or any of the ordinary forces of the orator, but his words flow with the unction of the Holy Spirit and the irresistible power of God. This is perhaps the chief reason why his writings have proved such a blessing in the lives of succeeding generations in the three centuries.
“When one who holds communion with the skies Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise.”
Chapter 1
UNNOTICED, YET NOTABLE
ONE bleak November morning—it was damp, chilly and foggy—over three hundred years ago; an event of more than ordinary importance happened in the obscure village of "Helenstow, in the county of Bedford," hard by Harrowden, on the coach road to London. This event, unheralded at the time, was the birth of a son to a "braseyer" named Bonnionn, or Bunyan. Shortly afterward, under date November 30, 1628, the parish register records the baptism of John the sonne of Thomas Bonnionn. Not a great deal is known of this Thomas Bonnionn. He was then a young man of twenty-two, who, as a widower, had married Margarett Bentley, now the proud mother of John. The Bunyans were an old Bedfordshire family that had been settled in the county for six or seven centuries, but their fortunes had been on the decline with the last few generations. At one time, however, they had held considerable land, part of Helenstow, or Elstow, in fact being known as Bonyan's End. Thomas Bonnionn, the present member of the family, was a man of low estate, a "braseyer," like his father. He was neither a tinker nor a gipsy, but a whitesmith who traveled round the countryside doing repairs to all kind of light metal work, household utensils, etc. He was a hardworking respectable tradesman, and was successful enough to be able to bequeath his house freehold when he died. The name Bonnionn later came to be contracted to Bonion, then changed to Bunion, or Bonyan, and finally to Bunyan.
The village of Elstow, at the time of the birth of John Bunyan in 1628, was a small place of only fifty-two families. It was adjacent to the larger "Towne of Bedford," which then boasted of a population of one hundred and fifty families. Elstow was situated on the banks of the broad river "Ouse" which flowed through the fruitful meadow lands that stretched for miles around. On the river banks were weeping willows which dipped their silver leaves into the cool refreshing waters. Close by tall and stately poplars raised their heads towards the azure blue of the sky, while "beautiful lilies" and pale blue forget-me-nots were to be seen growing all around. Situated on the gentle slopes of a near-by hill, at the place called Bonyan's End, was "the cottage tenement" which, "with the appurtenances thereof" were the property of Thomas Bonnionn.
This house, like others of the same period, was built of timber, filled with gravel and cement, thatched with straw, and lighted by quaint many-latticed windows. The interior had the usual large ingle-nook with its big square chimney. As to the furnishings, they would consist of "the pallets furnished with a boulster and counterpaine," and a few "wrought wooden stools." Then "trumbell beds, blankets and skillets, flaxen sheets and pillow-beres" would adorn the bedrooms, and "brasse potts, kettles, and platters" the kitchen. Outside the cottage was the small forge where Thomas Bonnionn did his "braseyer" work, the means by which he earned his living.
Things were cheap in the days of Bonnionn, an acre of land, for example, being valued at three shillings if paid in cash, or three and a half hides if paid in goods. Then Elstow enjoyed the privilege, as mentioned in Doomsday Book, of being exempt from paying rates or taxes, but of course at that time taxation was light as compared with to-day.
Beside the river, and close to the old church, stood the "free and perpetuall grammar scole" built by one of the Lord Mayors of London, and there John Bunyan was to receive the little education that was to be his lot.
The child John was baptized at Elstow Parish Church, on November 30, 1628, the actual date of birth not being recorded. Little is known of the boyhood days of Bunyan, except what can be gathered from references in various works written by himself so many years later. The period at which he was born, however, was an interesting one, and doubtless had a great, if unconscious, influence in molding his thoughts and coloring his imagination. To study the character of the period is to understand the tenor of his teaching. The mention of a few details only must suffice, however, in this short sketch.
The final phases of the Reformation movement were still fresh in the minds of the people. The thirty-nine Articles of Religion had only been in existence some sixty years, and his theological teaching largely corresponds with them. The first complete English Bible was only a century old. People still lived who had passed through the days when England was threatened by the Spanish Armada. The reign of Queen Elizabeth had drawn to a close only twenty-five years before. Shakespeare had been dead but twelve years when Bunyan was born. Men such as Baxter, Howe, Fox, Dryden, Pepys the diarist, were all leading actors on the great stage of life during Bunyan's days. Milton was a contemporary, and many have thought that his Paradise Lost, and Bunyan' s Pilgrim's Progress were the two outstanding literary masterpieces of that brilliant period of English prose writing. When Bunyan was less than a year old, Oliver Cromwell rode up to London to take his seat as the Member for Huntingdon.
The times of Bunyan's youth were stirring and terrible ones. The country was rent by strife and civil war, it was governed without a parliament. History was then in the making with such happenings as the Parliamentary Wars, the Commonwealth, the Restoration, the Plague and the Great Fire of London, the Dover Treaty, the Monmouth Rising, the Trial of the Seven! What an age to live in!
We read of these events in our history books, and we try to imagine what it meant to those who passed through them, but we cannot know as they did. And yet for the major part of Bunyan's life his companions were nondescript—rustic neighbors, ale-house Neds, nameless soldiers of Cromwell's army, members of a village church, county squires who did not count outside the county. We catch glimpses of these people in his books, lifelike silhouettes of this mixed company whom he had met and conversed with on the way.
His book, Grace Abounding, tells us many incidents about his boyhood days. We can be quite certain that he was a lad with plenty of "go" in him, and whatever he took in hand he did it with all his might.
His schoolmaster could have told us that his wits needed little sharpening, for they were sharp by nature and, if he would, he certainly could learn his lessons as well, aye, and better than the rest of the Elstow lads. It is to be feared, however, that as far as schooling went, it was a case of easily learned and easily lost, for the famous tinker, looking back upon his boyhood's days, says: "I did soon lose that I had learned, even almost utterly." It was evidently with him as it is with not a few now—"in at one ear and out of the other." But alas, how much easier it is to remember bad things than good things, for lad though he was, he soon became a great user of bad words, no doubt imitating in this respect the many around him, "who had not the fear of God before their eyes.”
He knew it was wrong, but even as a little child he found evil habits and the power of sin were too strong for him: but God did not forget him. God hated his sins, but He loved the sinner; and so his conscience did oft-times accuse him of his childish sins, and the consequence of sin was to him a continual fear. For, says Bunyan, "These things, when I was but a child, but nine or ten years old, did so distress my soul, that then in the midst of my many sports and childish vanities, amidst my vain companions, I was often much cast down, and afflicted in my mind therewith, yet could I not let go my sins.”
The boy grew up, and, as a youth, was venturesome and thoughtless, and bid fair to become a regular village loafer, a swearer, and a Sabbath-breaker, above many of his fellow-villagers. But "the good hand of God" was over him; for, "while Satan's blind slave he sported with death" he was wonderfully preserved from death and danger. So those early days were rollicked through, and when he was aged sixteen, his mother died. Then, within a month, the playmate of his childhood, his little sister Margaret, followed his mother: and both in so short a period were laid in their quiet resting-place in Elstow Churchyard.
Chapter 2
TESTED, YET TRIUMPHANT
ONE cannot help thinking that his mother was no ordinary woman, as so often, before and since, the mothers of the great and good have been remarkable women. However, he tells us very little of his parents, caring more to relate the particular ways of God's dealings with himself.
When a little over sixteen, Bunyan was to have a new experience amid the roar of cannon and din of battle. Parliament ordered in 1645, "that the county of Bedford, within fourteen days, shall send into the garrison of Newport two hundred and twenty-five able and armed men for soldiers," and among those drawn from Elstow for active service was John Bunyan.
Strange company did he find himself among now. Men—many of them—who knew equally well how to storm a fort or preach a sermon. Stern old "Valiants-for-the truth," with strong arms and tender hearts, who carried their Bibles with them, and having the fear of God before their eyes, fought a good fight in more senses than one.
And now, again, the special providence of God was over the lad from Elstow.
It was at the siege of Leicester, in 1645, that his life was again spared, for says he: “This also I have taken notice of, with thanksgiving: When I was a soldier, I, with others, was drawn out to go to such a place, to besiege it; but when I was just ready to go, one of the company desired to go in my room: to which, when I had consented, he took my place; and coming to the siege, as he stood sentinel, he was shot in the head with a musket bullet, and died.”
In 1646 the army was disbanded, and Bunyan returned to his tinkering life at Elstow, and in two or three years did a very good thing —he married a wife—and a right good sort she was, too; and her influence over him was good.
Not that she had much worldly goods to bring him, or that he had much to give her. But she brought a loving heart, two good books, and the memory of a godly father and a godly home: and these were no mean gifts.
He described his marriage thus: "When we were married we were as poor as poor might be (not having so much household stuff as a dish or a spoon betwixt us both), yet this she had for her part, The Plain Man's Pathway to Heaven; and The Practice of Piety; which her father had left her when he died. In these two books I would sometimes read with her, wherein I also found some things that were somewhat pleasing to me (but all this while I met with no conviction). She also would be often telling of me what a godly man her father was, and how he would reprove and correct vice, both in his house, and among his neighbors; what a strict and holy life he lived in his days, both in word and deed.”
We dare say John Bunyan knew many a village lass with whom he had danced on Elstow village green—jolly enough girls to dance with, no doubt—but not the kind to make good wives. No; John Bunyan may have been thoughtless enough about eternal things, but as regards the serious, matter-of-fact business of "getting married," he was shrewd enough to see that the girl who came from a godly home, and brought The Practice of Piety with her, was the sort of girl he needed.
His wife’s words, and the reading of the good books, made some alteration in his life. He became religious, and was soon doing all he could to "establish his own righteousness." He gave up this and he gave up that, and became very regular in going to Church; he "fell in very eagerly with the religion of the times.”
But the time was not yet for Bunyan to be brought into the full light and liberty of the children of God, for if you read his account of these events in his wonderful book called Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, you will see that he had to encounter many strange temptations, such as few have ever had to combat with. And if in reading his account, you think that they were simply his own disordered fancy, you are making a mistake.
Some of them, no doubt, were the outcome of his very imaginative mind, but in them all it must be remembered that they were real to him. He was to do a great work, and to help many out of their soul troubles, and so he was trained in a stern school, that he might learn his lesson well.
But there came a day, when, like the Pilgrim in his book, he came to a "place somewhat rising," and the burden was taken from off his back, and he could sing, as Christian did at the Cross:
Blest cross! blest sepulcher! blest rather be
The Man that there was put to shame for me.
This is how he describes the event: “But one day, as I was passing into the field, and that, too, with some dashes on my conscience, fearing lest yet all was not right, suddenly this sentence fell upon my soul, 'Thy righteousness is in heaven,' and methought withal, I saw with the eyes of my soul, Jesus Christ at God's right hand: there, I saw, was my righteousness; so that wherever I was, or whatever I was doing, God could not say of me, 'He wants My righteousness' for that was just before Him. I also saw, move over, that it was not my good frame of heart that made my righteousness better, nor yet my bad frame that made my righteousness worse; for my righteousness was Jesus Christ Himself, `The same yesterday, to-day, and forever,'”
After this, he joined the Church at Bedford, over which "holy Mr. Gifford" was pastor. He also, at this time, moved from Elstow, where he was born, into Bedford.
When the news went about that the swearing young tinker, John Bunyan, had joined Mr. Gifford's church, there was no small stir in the locality. Many came to the meetings to see for themselves if there was any truth in the report. And many of them in their turn were arrested by the Word, and brought to the feet of the Lord Jesus.
And thus many living links in the chain of God's grace were forged, and many were "added to the Lord.”
And now begins a new period in the life of John Bunyan. Events were soon to take place which were to lead to suffering, to prison and also to never-dying fame; although the latter had no place in the ambitions of the honest Tinker. His great object in life was to be a good soldier of Jesus Christ, and in that service he was prepared to endure hardship.
Chapter 3
POOR, BUT WEALTHY
Right life for me is life that wends
By lowly ways to lofty ends.
“WHAT now, good dame? Is the master in? I have come over from Bunyan' s End to have a crack with him; but they tell me strange tales, and say that he will no more play at tip cat, than he will dance with the maidens. 'Tis a pity, for a prettier man never trod shoe leather than my gossip, John Bunyan.”
The speaker was a young man with long hanging ringlets, surmounted by a broad Flemish beaver hat, with a costly hat band and a plume of feathers, set or cocked, as it is termed, on one side of his head, a coat of prune-colored velvet embroidered with gold lace, his sword hanging from a broad silk sash that was tied in a bow. The place was the quiet village of Elstow, some three miles to the south-west of Bedford town, about the year 1651. The woman to whom he addressed this, for him, unusually long speech was a slim dark, girlish figure, her braided locks pressed closely to her face, as she stood in the small doorway of the tinker's cottage. Her gentle features were clouded as she answered her visitor.
“Nay, good sir; he has but gone to Bedford to take Master Audley his big iron pot and best kettle home, and maybe to buy himself a matter of solder for his mending. Will your honor leave any commands for him?”
“Commands, good dame, eh, it is good! Hast thou never heard honest John speak of John Rogers, that was born in the house next the Bunyans' cottage? Many a merry time I had with him before I went to learn the physicing!”
“Yes, I have oft heard of you, Master Rogers. Will ye come in and rest awhile? I look for him soon.”
“Marry, that I will; for 'tis hot walking on the dusty road.”
The apartment into which they entered was a little room paved with flagstones that were strewn with a carpet of green rushes, the low ceiling being supported by huge beams of black oak, darkened by the wood smoke from the only fireplace the cottage boasted. A rude chair, seated with rush-work, and a wooden bench, both of them apparently homemade, with a small deal table, formed the sole furniture of the room; except, perhaps, two shelves, on one of which two rude plates and a dish hid a small part of the uncolored plaster wall, while two small books possessed the other shelf in undisputed grandeur.
On the one side of the fireplace was a broadsheet on which in rude printing one might read, "A posie from that stout Father in God and Holie Confessor, Master Latimer, to be pasted on a chamber door." Opposite to it was another folio sheet of paper containing, "Cordials for fainting; distilled and stored from the writings of that choice man of God, Master Castlemaine"; while over the mantelpiece was a third paper which bore the double title of "The quainte and merrie jest of the Miller and a Mass Priest, to which is joined the odde taile of the Chapman and the Ringe.”
“Well, dame," said Rogers, "I have been far, but I am fain to see Elstow once more. I started to come, but my father's kine had strayed; and though he called upon Saint Catherine and every saint he knew, it had gone badly had not a chapman from Scotland met them and turned them back on our road. The saints, saith my father, seem not to mind men, as our fathers say they did in their day.”
“I know not of what is past, but I fear, Master Rogers, it is ill work calling upon those who are as much in need of mercy as we ourselves. Were it not better to ask the saints' Master when we are in need?”
“That may be, but don't preach, good wife; they do say at Elstow market cross that 'twas thou that didst turn my playfellow from his sports.”
“And wherefore not when they are such follies?" interposed a tall man who had entered by the back door unnoticed by either speaker. "I am proud to see thee, John, my old friend; sit thee down and mayhap the good wife can give thee of our best, though that be poor enough.”
“Yet it is welcome, and is given with all our heart," said Mary Bunyan, as she put the black loaf, with a piece of hard cheese, on the board.
“Now, neighbor, tell me what has befallen thee; why, man, thy face is as sad as a Jew's when he has to pay his reckoning— what has befallen thee? I can recall thee when thou didst play at toss penny on the green, and a sturdy rogue thou wast in those days. Ever the first in mischief and fun many a merrie sport we had together in those times. And ye remember that the parson used to say to thee, 'Ay, lad, thou art no white rook, but as black as smoke can make thee?'”
“What meant he?" asked Mary timidly; "why should he call thee a rook, John?”
“Why, sweet' and, it seems that some three years before I was born (mayhap about 1625), my father, climbing for rooks' nests in Berry Wood, found one nest in which were three young rooks, all milk white like doves, and with not a black feather in them; so they did call my brother and I, in mock, the white rooks.”
“But thou wast never white livered, John," said Rogers, "but as ready for a daring deed as any along the countryside; what ails thee now? When thy mother died, and not three months after her burial, thy father married a new wife, thou wast hot and angry at the dishonor to her, but thou didst not mope and pine like a chicken like to die.”
“Why neighbor, ye know what I was in my youth. The learning I gathered when at the school in Bedford I speedily lost, and when my father brought a stranger to sit in my mother's chair, I was not sorry that I was called upon to go with the Parliament army. Though I was but sixteen, I had heard enough to make me eager to strike against the tyrants that had trodden us down. My mother's sister, Rose, had her house stripped from cellar to garret because she went to the funeral of a man excommunicated for not paying church rate; and her sister, a poor widow, while carrying a skillet full of milk, given her for her sick children, had the milk thrown away and the skillet taken from her by the bishop's men!
“Right glad I was to serve at Newport Pagnell, under stout Sir Samuel Luke, a man who could fight and pray too. Into his father's service my uncle, Edward Bunyan, who also married my mother's sister Rose, entered, and is with him still. Through mercy I was delivered when once in marching I fell into an arm of the sea; and once on my return from a march into the West I found one that had taken my place had been slain by the enemy. In 1646 I came home; then it was my hope to work at my calling for some time. But once it came to pass, as I went through the country, I came to a village nigh to Leicester. There it was my mercy to light upon my wife. It fell out thus: Her father was a preacher in the north country, and suffered much from the late Archbishop Laud. His goods were taken from him, poor man; his soul vexed with grievous persecutions; and all because he would not put up altar rails in his church, or wear vestments that he accounted Popish. At length he published a little book called The Mask Torn Off; or Popery Unveiled; a Plain Testimony against Human Inventions in Religion, by a humble servant of Jesus Christ; and for so doing they cut off his ears and slit his nose, and then cast him bleeding into jail. And when they gave this sentence the Archbishop lifted his eyes to Heaven and thanked God for the suffering and shame that were to come! He died in prison of the jail fever, and his daughter was thrust out to starve by those who were kin to her father. She was penniless, and her kin would not be burdened with her. She was sheltered in a godly Quaker's house some years, and had lain there long may be, but friend Thomas had a testimony laid upon him to go and anoint Lord Henry Vane as a champion of the truth; and so my damsel was homeless. It was my hap to pass that way, and I met her as she sat weary and faint on a bank by the roadside. I gave her of my food, and when I heard her tale we went to the justices, and were wed.
“When we came here she had naught but you two books; indeed we had naught between us both, not so much as a dish or a spoon.”
“Well, for that, I love not books, give me a merrie ballad like Sir Bevis or Chevy Chase, and you may keep your books," said Rogers. "We have enough of them, and I don't doctor from books.”
“I thought so too, once, but my wife would talk to me of her father, and what he said, until I saw how bad and foolish I was and had been, and longed to be like him, good man. And then she would read to me, and I, reading with her, got back my book learning. They are brave books, too, The Practice of Piety and the Plain Man's Pathway to Heaven.”
"As to piety, I leave that to parsons," replied Rogers. "But come, gossip, you and I were well enough when we used to play on the green, Sunday night-and what harm either? Methinks if one does what one can, we shall get to Heaven as well as the rest.”
“So I thought once, John, but though the Book led me to go to a church twice a day, I felt none the better. Parson Hall I reverenced, so that I could have kissed the hem of his garment, but good lack! I knew not what to do to be saved. But so it was that last Sunday is the twelfth month since when I struck the cat a blow from the hole. I was about to deliver a second blow, when lo! a voice fell from Heaven which said plainly, `Wilt thou leave thy sins and go to Heaven, or have thy sins and go to Hell?' I stood like one in a maze, and looking up I saw clearly the Lord Jesus Himself looking down upon me, and as one displeased at my folly.
“There I stood, as one in a dream, yet in my mind I said soon, 'I am lost, and I may as well take my fill of sin now,' and with that I returned to my play once more, and wrought at it with all my might.
“I soon shook off all feeling, and hastened to eat and drink all the delicates I could have lest I should die soon.
“But ere a month had gone by, as I stood in the street, cursing by Dame Webb's shop, she spoke to me, bidding me desist lest I should corrupt all the youths, saying I made her shudder, and ye know she is none of the best. I was struck dumb, and have not blasphemed since; nor will if I can help it. Then when I went to the ringing in the brave church tower that stands apart from the church, I would consider, what if the lightning should come and strike me dead, as it did once a man who was ringing the church bells at Hawarden? Or what if the bell should fall? Then I would stand under the wood beam; but it seemed as if through the holes in the window shutter, high up in the tower, I could see the eye of God flaming upon me, and it sometimes appeared as if the rope was transformed into the angel's sword stretched out to smite me. Here I stood in the doorway and longed to be within, but I durst not for fear I should die.”
“But wherefore? Bell ringing can be no sin, and thy religion is worth little if it makes thee fear to do what can't be wrong," said Rogers.
“But I felt that it was sin for me, and the voices within me forbad it, and the visions I saw terrified me too much for me to do it with a quiet mind," replied John. "My good dame, it is true, believes not in voices, nor over much in visions; she says they may not be from God. But, though I count her wise in all else, I think in this she is wrong; eh, my heart?”
Mary merely smiled, and said, "Ye know my mind, but you should know best, husband.”
“Spoken like a wise woman as ye are. Tinker though I be, I am rich in such a wife as thou, Mary; but thy babe is crying in the chamber above. Poor thing!" he said as his wife left the room; "'tis a fair child, Rogers, but blind, alas!”
“God help it, then," replied Rogers; "but who is that smiting the doorway?”
“One that should not be kept waiting," replied a tall man who now entered the apartment.
Chapter 4
WISE, THOUGH UNTAUGHT
Whose life was work-whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life.
“MR. WINGATE! I knew not your honor," exclaimed John Bunyan. "Will not your lordship sit down?”
“Nay, my man; but who is this with thee?”
“John Rogers, my playmate, whose father lived in the cottage next the house in which I was born, at Bunyan' s End.”
“And where has he been to dress thus bravely?”
“He went North during the troubles by reason that the steward's daughter forsook him for the curate, and hath but just come back to Elstow. He is a leech of no small skill.”
“I can warrant that ye both know how to handle a pike at a pinch; so much the better," said Mr. Wingate, eyeing Rogers haughtily. "I want ye both upon a business that will require skill. Ye know Sir Samuel Luke, of Copple End House?”
“Yea, your honor, I know him well," replied Bunyan.
“Well, next evening I want ye to go to the coppice on the Bedford Road, nigh to the riding stone, and lie in wait. About twelve of the clock comes Lady Luke with some treasure, and I want ye to spring out upon her, and as she rides upon a pillion behind the servant-man, ye ought to master him easily, and bring the lady and the casket she bears to them who shall meet you in the wood. In truth, it contains papers that are of no value to her, but they will damage me, and also Sir George Blundell and Sir Henry Chester, to say naught of Dr. Lindall. In doing this service ye shall have a gold noble each, with an angel hush money. What say ye? Yes, of course.”
“I cannot do it, your honor," said Bunyan; "anything else to pleasure you I am willing to attempt, but not this.”
“But consider, if ye will do us this service it shall stand you in for much gear; if ye will not, a Wingate never forgot a slight.”
“When your honor's son fell into the Ouse I fished him out; and for Sir Henry Chester, 'tis not a month since that I brought back his child that had been stolen by the gipsies, and for that he called me gipsy, and gave me but a great for my pains. Nay, sir, I cannot for myself.”
“But ye will, good man," said Wingate, turning to Rogers. "'Tis ever so with these prating Roundheads; in my father's time men had not been so nice, not one but had cracked a score of heads at his master's bidding.”
“Nay, sir," said Rogers, "I like not this work either. If I struck a blow it would be for the Parliament. But I will keep your counsel, though I dare not do your will.”
“Then look for vengeance from me. I will not forget thee, tinker. Wait! Wait! I say.”
“'Tis a proud lad, though he be but a boy," said Rogers. "His uncle was one of the party that took rich Henry Crispe out of his bed at Quex Park, Kent, and carried him over the seas to Bruges. He got not back until his friends had paid three thousand pounds good gold for his liberty.”
“But I will the morn to Sir Luke to give him heed," said Bunyan; "he is to be at Bedford sitting in the Swan Chamber with other great men-the more that I propose going to see Mr. Gifford, who is minister at St. John's Church.”
“But what know ye of him, and how heard he about the men?" asked Rogers.
“Why, this morning as I went through Bedford, intent upon my calling, it was my lot that I should pass through one of the streets that are nigh the High Street. There sat three poor women in the sun, and as they talked in the doorway I heard some of their speech. I drew nigh to listen; but alas! 'twas such talk as I never dreamed of ever before! They spoke of a new birth, of how God had worked in their hearts to show them their lost state, of how they were once under the curse of God for their guilt and iniquity; and then they spoke comfortably of the loving kindness of God in giving His dear Son to die for them, and how they had been led to trust Christ, and found in Him peace and rest for their soul. Methought that is what I much want, yet how to obtain it I knew not. Then they talked of how God had visited them and refreshed them; and said one (Mary Fenne, by name), `I mind now how once when I was sore grieved and vexed, for that the Sheriff's man seized my kettle and lace-pillow for a church rate, I walked in darkness by the river bank, and, as I watched the dark waters that swept under the bridge nigh the black prison, I remembered the river that Ezekiel saw, and methought its healing waters came even to my marshy and barren heart.
It rose upon me, the sweet mercy and comfort of Jesus, until I felt that it mattered little what men took from me, so that they left me Christ and His Divine grace and mercy. Oh, but I was strong in Him, and I felt His sweet comfort down in my poor heart, and I felt as if I must shout to the clouds and trees of the gladness that burned like a fire in my bones. Talk of mirth! there was never such light-heartedness round the Maypole as filled me then.'
'Ay,' said a wrinkled and worn ancient woman they termed Norton, "tis even so. I have known depths of sorrow, but they have been times of deep delight to my soul. When my husband died of the wounds he received in battle, my soul was stayed upon God, and I felt my faith grasp His sweet, strong promise; and look ye, gossips, though I have but a penny per week to call my own, I would not give it up with the love of God to be the great Earl of Bedford himself!'
“It seemed to me as if they were in another world far above me; but when they talked about their temptations, methought I knew what they meant, at least in some degree. Yet they declared that they had oftentimes gotten the victory and all through the Word of God. Methought this is indeed news to me.
“I was struck all a-dumb at their wisdom, yet it was sweet to me, like the droppings of the honeycomb. And when I opened my mind to them they made no mock of my distress, nor did they make light of it, but bade me come the next day to talk to their teacher, one Dr. Gifford, and by God's grace I went to him.”
“Well, do as thou list, but 'tis late, neighbor," said Rogers; "will ye walk a step with me, for I must be for home?”
“Aye, that I will," said Bunyan, and the two friends emerged into the quiet, winding street that even then had an old-world look in its peaceful, calm life. They had not gone far beyond the little stream when a noise of clashing swords and oaths fell upon their ears. Without hesitation they hastened forward, and as Bunyan carried a stout oaken staff, he had no fear of entering the fray. Two men, evidently gentlemen, were fighting desperately with four ruffians, who seemed confident of an easy victory.
“William Swinton of Bedford, I declare," said Rogers; "strike always the other side to William Swinton, and one is sure to be right. Against the four, Bunyan, and we will not be wrong.”
In a few moments the arrival of the two sturdy helpers turned the tide of victory, and the four ruffians were speedily hurrying across the fields in hot haste.
The two gentlemen at first seemed inclined to hurry off without noticing their deliverers; but some spark of better feeling evidently lingered in the breast of one, who turned and said: “We thank ye, good men; ye came but in time; we were sore wounded, and might have been worse.”
“Mr. Wingate is welcome to Bunyan' s aid, and so is Sir Henry Chester, for if I mistake not ye are he," said Bunyan, pulling his forelock to the second man.
“Ye saved my life, I suppose," said the other; "but I cannot bear to owe any man anything. I love to be master; here is a gold button from my coat. Now we are quits.”
“I want it not," said Bunyan; and, bidding Rogers farewell, he returned to his cottage.
The next day Bunyan went to the Swan Chamber in Bedford, and warned Sir Samuel of the peril to which his wife was exposed. The stout old knight at once dispatched a troop to bring her past the danger.
“God save thee, Bunyan, thou art a trusty friend," he said. "Fare thee well for thy good deed to me and mine.”
The sun was burning in the heavens as Bunyan approached the rectory of St. John's in Bedford on his visit to Mr. Gifford.
The dining-room, which he entered by a cloister, was a large oak-lined chamber, formerly the living room of the ancient almshouse. In it sat the man John Bunyan has pictured as Evangelist in his Pilgrim's Progress, John Gifford by name. Once a Royalist soldier and a libertine, he had been rescued from death to experience a change no less remarkable, becoming the teacher of a congregation that, though Baptists, were permitted the use of St. John's church during the Commonwealth time.
His greeting was hearty, and though Bunyan at first was somewhat nervous, he soon obtained confidence under the kindly words of Gifford.
“And how came ye to consider yourself shut out from the mercy of God? Know ye not that His compassion is like the great deep? Know ye the limit of your love to your blind child Mary? Nay, ye cannot tell how much ye love her, and think ye God does not love His blind children with much love too?”
“Aye, but I am not one of them! Blind or maimed, I care not, so long as I be one of the family," groaned Bunyan.
“Methinks ye are one, or else ye were not so distressed lest ye should be left out. God had some purpose of grace, or He had not permitted you to seek Him so long and in such distress.”
“Oh! but ye know not what anguish I have felt! As I came along the road, I was sore tempted to try to work a miracle. I had nigh bade the puddles in the path be dry, and the dry places become puddles; but for fear it should appear that I had no faith, and was therefore a castaway, I hesitated to make the trial.
“Oh, and the anguish I have felt when night and day the voices in my heart have cried, `Sell Christ! Sell Christ; yea, sell Him,' and I have shuddered deep in my soul lest I should have done the Judas deed! Oh, for some stout texts of Scripture to stand at my back when the rush of the enemy is upon me! Woe is me! What shall I do?”
“There is naught for thee to do but to seek pardon at the foot of the Cross. Consider this if thou dost feel a thousand times more than thou canst ever do, yet thou wilt not ever feel enough the sore burden of thy sins. Consider how many and black are thine iniquities, and how persistent thou hast been in thy rejection of the mercy of God proclaimed in Christ Jesus! Oh, it is good for thee to realize how black and foul thou art; and how desperate thy case is apart from Christ! Thou art like a man being drawn from a pit by a single rope. He does naught but cling to the rope tied round him; if that rope break he must be dashed to pieces; all his salvation depends upon the rope of another, held in another's hand. That rope is the work of Christ for thee, and He who cast the rope will pull thee out of thy peril and distress.
“But I would specially charge thee not to rest content till thou art established upon the rock Christ Jesus. Be well persuaded, and that by Scriptural proofs alone, that thou art passed from death unto life. Fill thy spirit from the well of the Bible; drink deeply and often of its gracious words if thou wouldst be strong. Depend upon it, it is neglect of the Bible that causes the anguish and weakness of many Christians; thou canst not be strong or useful save by the influence of the inwrought Word, and to it I would commend thee.”
With many gracious words did the teacher urge his friend to seek knowledge and certainty in the Book of God; and so they parted as the evening drew on.
Bunyan procured a Bible, but read only the historical books, avoiding with a strange perversity the Epistles of Paul. He set the Commandments before him as his way to Heaven, and for a year lived a reformed life externally. He was looked upon as a prodigy of piety. His neighbors, who had been shocked by his daring wickedness, were much pleased with the change, and Bunyan, ever eager for the sympathy of others, rejoiced greatly in their esteem and commendations; yet was inwardly conscious that they were not fully deserved; "for," he writes, "had I then died, my state had been most fearful.”
“Wife," said Bunyan one day in course of conversation at home, "is there such a Scripture as 'I must go to Jesus?'" She replied, "I cannot tell"; therefore he stood musing to see if he could remember it. In the course of a few minutes he recalled what is written in the twelfth chapter of Hebrews: "Ye are come to Mount Zion... to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the New Testament, and to the blood of sprinkling." Then with joy he told his wife, "Oh, now I know, I know!" He writes, "That night was a good night to me; I have had but few better; I longed for the company of some of God's people, that I might have imparted unto them what God had showed to me. I could scarcely lie in my bed for joy, and peace, and triumph through Christ. All my former darkness had fled away, and the blessed things of Heaven were set in my view. These words have often since that time been great refreshments to my spirit. Blessed be God for having had mercy on me!”
Being now able to confess Christ as his Savior, he was baptized by Mr. Gifford, and enrolled in the membership of the Church. This took place in the same year as that in which Oliver Cromwell became Lord Protector, 1653, Bunyan himself being about twenty-five years of age. Two years afterward he became a preacher of the Gospel.
Chapter 5
SILENCED, BUT TEACHING
We want our Bunyan to show the way
Through the Sloughs of Despond that are round us to-day
“SHALL I run or stay? Methinks my Elizabeth hath some claim to be thought on; and if I go to prison what will become of my poor blind Mary? Poor little lamb, they will neglect thee; scorn thee, perhaps beat thee. Oh, I cannot bear it, that thou shouldst suffer. Yet I am bidden to go upon the forlorn hope of liberty; and what dismay will it cause among the servants of truth if I now fail? After speaking stoutly, and bidding them preach, in spite of King or priest, it were foul dishonor should I now yield, and to a threat. If I desert at the shaking of a piece of paper (for the justices' warrant is no more), others, when they are in real straits, will deny the Lord that bought them. Nay, by God's grace, though it mean the tearing of my flesh from my bones, I will do my duty, whatever may come to me and mine; Lord, defend my wife, and be a father to my poor, poor, helpless, blind child!”
The speaker was a tall man, somewhat large boned, but well proportioned, about thirty years of age. His red locks falling back from a broad and lofty forehead, beneath which sparkled keen eyes, tender with sympathy and affection, full nostrils, and a mouth, large but winning, shaded by a slight mustache after the ancient manner; altogether a man not to be despised, frightened, or easily forgotten, though he was only John Bunyan, the tinker of Bedford. His large toil-stained hands grasped firmly the buttons of his tightly fitting tunic, which, with a large collar and knee breeches, formed the accepted dress of the Puritan party at that time. As he continued his walk beneath the elm trees that fringed the meadow at Lower Samsell, he stopped, as a stranger hastily joined him.
“Uncle Edward! what brings thee from Copple Wood-End? Hath thy master, Sir Oliver, sent thee?”
“Aye, John, he hath warning, or Sir Samuel had, that if thou wilt preach this day, the justices are determined to cast thee into jail. 'Tis Mr. Wingate who bears a grudge against all our friends, and seems to have a special spite against thee. I thought to find thee at thy cousin John's at Stretly, where thy wife thought thou were staying; but when I rode there they told me thou hadst left them and intended preaching here.”
“Yea, I left them for they have gold and goods I would not imperil; the rich are slow to become sufferers for the truth," replied John.
“But why shouldst thou risk thy life-for it may come to that?" interposed the owner of the meadow and of the farmhouse near, in which the preaching was to take place, and who had now just joined Bunyan and his uncle. "Be ruled, goodman Bunyan, I pray thee. Thy rich cousins will have none of thee, thy father cannot (and would not if he could) care for thy little ones, why shouldst thou leave them to the cruelty of them that will do them wrong for thy sake?”
“Nay, I leave them to no man, nor do I crave any man's love for them. They are in the promise, and God will be eyes to the blind, or mayhap bring her with me speedily to Heaven. I cannot for the sake of wife and family draw back, for fear I bring upon them and myself the curse and vengeance of God.”
“Well said, nephew," replied his uncle. "I love to see a man scorn to show his back when the rush of battle comes. Stand thou fast as we did at Naseby-our God be with thee. I may not stay, fare thee well!”
“Farewell, uncle! bear me in your prayers," replied. Bunyan. "See, neighbor Smith, along the Westoning Road, the Bosquains are coming; and you is the Carrol family from Flitwick. Beneath the elms, from Harlington, are many folk, and the path across the fields from Higher Samsell and Pulloxhill is dotted with friends hastening to the preaching. Let us within and be not daunted. Our cause is good, we need not be ashamed of it. To preach God's Word is so good a work that we shall be well rewarded if we suffer for it. Let us stand fast in the service of Christ.”
Crossing the drawbridge over the moat, which was lifted at nightfall, the two entered the large farmhouse kitchen, which was soon filled with farm laborers from Lower Samsell itself, and other friends from the villages near.
When the company had assembled, John Bunyan began with prayer. No cathedral, radiant in color and glorious in carving, ever echoes to such heartfelt accents as burst and swept from the tinker's lips that morning. It seemed as if all the floodgates of his soul were opened, and every inch of his being had become musical in communion with God.
Said the farmer to his wife long after, "I feared for him mightily until he began his prayer, and then I was borne above fear, and it seemed as if the tinker were Elijah in the power and might of the Lord! No wonder that he was so brave, when he could pray as he did then. It seemed like the whirlwind that swept off my terror like the dry leaves off the trees. Would that we were like him!”
“And when he ceased praying, and opened his little Bible," rejoined his wife, "I mind the way that he read his text: `Dost thou believe on the Son of God?' I felt that, whatever I did he himself believed with all his soul. And when the constable and Mr. Wingate's man burst upon us, breaking in the door, never shall I forget the manner in which he prepared to go with them.”
“Aye, wife, and do you mind that he bade us not to be discouraged, but rejoice that we were accounted worthy of being sufferers for Christ? `But for grace,' said he, 'we might have been apprehended as murderers or the like, but now it was because we were Christians, and 'twas better to suffer wrong than to inflict it.' God be praised that we ever looked upon his honest face.”
“It is so, good man," replied his wife; "he brought a blessing to our house, our son had not been the man he is had it not been for Bunyan' s noble courage at the justices'. Tell it me again, George; it makes me strong to hear it.”
“Why, when we went to Mr. Wingate's I was surety that Bunyan should come the next day to be tried. We brought him home here, and he lay in the standing bed in our loft that night; but it seemed as if he slept not, for the men that lay in the loft hard by heard him in prayer until the sun rose, and they would speak of it long after when they followed the plow. I went with him to the constable, and we then came to the justice. Our George followed us to see what would chance, and when they opened the heavy gate at Harlington House, he slipped in with us. I shall not forget soon the great parlor, with its carved walls and dark oaken beams, and the proud face of the master as he sat in his great chair. His lip curled as if to say, 'A tinker!' and he asked haughtily what weapons were found upon us, and how many were gathered together. But when he heard that we were but few in number, and that not so much as a sword was to be found upon any who were at the preaching, he seemed like one who was set fast on a slough, and knew not what to do. At length Mr. Wingate turned to Bunyan and asked him what did he in Lower Samsell, and why did he not spend his time in mending pots as his father had done before him.
“To which Bunyan made him answer that he did follow his calling, but that he also, without confusion or neglect, did strive to instruct people to forsake their sins and close in with Christ; at which speech the justice started from his seat, and swore fiercely that he would break the neck of all such meetings. To this threat Bunyan made answer, that it might be so. But when the bond for his appearance was being made out, Justice Wingate told Merten, 'I thought we were bound to keep Bunyan from preaching, or else the bonds would be forfeited. "But I cannot but preach,' quoth John, 'and if such be the bonds I shall of a certainty break them.' Upon which the justice bade them send him to rot in jail.
“Justice Wingate swung himself off to his wine, when in came his father-in-law, Dr. Lindall, the vicar, who fell a taunting and making mock of us. We answered him naught, for fear of being fined, but John Bunyan replied, that he came not to talk to Dr. Lindall, but to Mr. Wingate, at which the parson seemed as if he had gotten a victory. But when he began to jest about a tinker who left his pots and kettles to mend men's lives, and asked if any could prove that it was lawful for such a one to preach, our tinker soon silenced him with the words of the Apostle Peter, 'As every man hath received the gift, even so let him minister the same.' To which Lindall made no reply, until he said with a sneer, 'Yea, I have heard of your kin, one Alexander, the coppersmith, that did much disturb the apostles; ye are of his lineage.'
'And I have heard of ye,' answered Bunyan; 'there were many priests that had their hands in the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ, for a man may be no Christian even though he live in a parsonage and read prayers. 'Tis not being called holy, but believing in the Lord Jesus Christ, that will save the soul.'
“'Yea, ye are one of the scribes that make long prayers and devour widows' houses,' hissed the parson; to which John answered truly that if Dr. Lindall got no more by his preaching than he, the tinker did, the vicar had not been so rich as he was; but after that he deigned no reply, and so they sent him to jail for preaching. Yet as we went down the road we met Brethren Foster of Hitchin, and Marsom of Luton, who would have us stay until they had tried to alter the justices' mind.
“While they went to the house, Bunyan waited with the constable, and I returned home; hither also the constable brought him, after the setting in of the night.
“The next morning I went with them to prison, along the thirteen miles of road that lead to Bedford. Through Wilstead we walked; Bunyan teaching us as we went along or answering our questions, and seeking to strengthen our boy and I in the faith. I mind me that when we came nigh to Elstow it seemed as if he might break down. When he beheld the tree-tops he heaved a sigh that was heart deep; and when we crossed the little stream and saw the quiet street before us in which he had played as a boy, cold drops stood upon his forehead, and he closed his eyes and walked speechless, and as if he were in inward agony. At the entrance of the green he made pause: 'Here,' said he, 'God appeared to me when in my folly I ran riot to commit sin. In you Moot Hall, where I danced with the maidens, He met with my soul; not an inch of the sward but hath known my heart's agony when I sought peace and found it not. Now I go bound, now knowing what shall befall me, but ready to seal my testimony with my blood. Wondrous grace, to save such a sinner as I have been!' But when we came nigh to the cottage in which he did once live before he went into Bedford town, out of the door came his old father, who left his forge to look upon his son. For the old man, because the forge was at the cottage end, had come to live in the house where John once abode. And the neighbors gathered round; men who had known him as a boy; some blaming, and some bidding him submit to the king; but all full of pity to see their gossip now bound and going to prison in the pride of his strength. His father said little, but looked earnestly with pity upon him, saying sadly, 'God help thee, son! Would that thou hadst never meddled with things above thee. Why didst thou not do as I did at thy age? The tinker's is a merry life when his work is done—there is the ale bench and a good song—what need to vex thy brain about things the parsons should look to? Let us mind our solder, and leave praying to them that be paid for it. The hammer makes music enough until one may lay it by to hear a merry song.' Whereat his son groaned heavily, and wept at his father's blindness, and so he went on until we came into Bedford. My heart failed me when I saw the heavy iron door of the prison close behind him, and with a sad heart I came down Jail Lane to seek his wife to give her cheer in her sorrow. Aye, 'tis a mystery why such a good man should suffer so, and many evil ones take no harm, but ever prosper in the world. It passes me quite.”
“It passes thee! Of course it does," replied his wife. "It passes my child why I do many things; but I know the reason. You never tell your reasons to your men, but you say, 'Bill, go down to the five acre and tend the stock,' or, 'Tom, go ye and hoe the turnips,' or, 'Take your flails, lads, and thresh the wheat'; and why shouldn't God keep His reasons to Himself. He is not bound to tell us why He does things; perhaps His reasons would pass our minds, and so He doesn't tell us.”
“Yea, good wife, there are always good reasons, I trow, and I suppose, like good servants, we ought to do our Master's bidding, and not be always bothering to know why. We be told to do it. But 'tis time the kine came from the pasture. Let us not forget our duties; but do as Mr. Bunyan would bid us, and make our farm like he said once a Christian's heart should be, and what the temple was—full of proofs of the loving God that owned it; and so to work, because we shall pray the better when the day is done.”
Chapter 6
CONDEMNED, BUT NOT GUILTY
Ten thousand deaths in every nerve
I'd rather suffer than deserve.
“ONLY for a little time, Mr. White! I have been sick like to death, and my baby died. He will be pining for the sight of his little blind maiden! Ye will not say me nay?" pleaded a woman, wan and pinched with recent sickness and distress. 'Twas Elizabeth Bunyan, the second wife of the tinker, who had moved some five years since from Elstow into Bedford. His gentle Mary had passed away, leaving him with four young children, the eldest, Mary, now a maiden ten years of age, being the blind babe of whom in the second chapter he had spoken to Rogers. He had married again, now some two years since, another wife; not like the drooping lily that had gladdened his home, but a brave, earnest, loving spirit, rose-like in fragrance and devotion to him. She stood outside the jail door in Bedford, now some three weeks after the incidents recorded in the last chapter, leading her blind Mary by the hand, seeking admission from the under-jailer, who looked through the little barred windows in the strong iron-clamped door.
It was not in vain that she pleaded; in a few moments she passed the portal, now preserved in Bedford, that then shut in the prisoners' day-room with the security of its three transverse layers of oak, secured firmly by iron bolts, and was led by Bunyan to his tiny sleeping apartment, the grated window of which looked out into Silver Street.
After a few tender inquiries in reference to the blind child, Bunyan briefly recounted the incidents of his arrest that have already been detailed in the fourth chapter, and then he proceeded: “As I waited with the constable outside Harlington House, I prayed much for thee, and my heart did melt when I thought what harm might come to thee because of me; and when my friends came back saying that Mr. Justice Wingate would release me if I did but say a few words, to which I replied heartily, `that if the words were such as could be said with a clear conscience, I would say them with all my heart'; and back to the house we went. As we went up the walk, and into the great parlor, I lifted up my soul to God, praying that I might be kept from doing or saying aught that might dishonor Him, or hurt my own soul, or discourage any of His saints. And when we had entered the room there was that Mr. Foster who owed us the money he would not pay. When he beheld me he lifted the candle, for it was now night, and made as though he would have kissed me. And with soft words and honeyed speech he asked for my health, and why I was there, and that with many gentle phrases that made me think of the cat patting the mouse she will presently devour. And he bade me not call the people any more, but just follow my calling, in which he knew none more skilful, and I should have his favor and go home speedily. But when I could not refuse to preach wherever any might desire to hear me, he called me Papist, and I saw the hook glitter under the painted flies. He said, moreover, that none but foolish and ignorant people ever came to hear me; to which I answered that I am thankful therefore, for ignorant and foolish people had more need of teaching than others; so at last he changed his tone, and said I must go to prison, 'that affliction might bring thee to thy senses. For we love thee, Brother Bunyan,' quoth he; 'the king loves thee, and so do I; and we must send thee to jail to teach thee that thou must not preach about the country.' I had much ado not to cry out to him that I went to prison with the peace of God, but I held my tongue, for I felt that I was upon the bosom of love, and that thou wast kept also safely in the arms of Jesus.
“On the morning after we sent to Justice Compton of Elstow, but he refused to release me, though I had broken no law whatsoever; still I am content that, if my lying here will serve the cause of God, I will lie here till the moss grows upon my eyebrows and my flesh drops from my bones. Let it be as God will.”
“True, beloved, but we will do our utmost; the house is so dull without thee. Thy little Mary sits pining for thy voice, and the other two are often crying for father. It goes to my heart to see them craving for thee. And some that I thought better off will not pay what they owe thee. William Swinton, the sexton of St. Cuthbert, owes thee a matter of five pounds, ye know; now he says not a penny will he pay thee. Yet I am proud of thee.
Yield not, John, for we will beg from door to door before thou shalt yield for our sakes, to do what ye feel to be wrong in the sight of God. I pray much that we may see thee again by our fireside, and I look through the stone lattice often longing to see thy brave face through the pane; but I pray more that thou mightest stand fast, like David against the giant, that thou shalt one day, too, conquer. Think not of us, but be firm.”
“Aye, that I will," said Bunyan, who had nestled the blind girl in his arms; "but what will my Mary do if her father has to die for the truth?”
“Do, father? Why, love thee all the more, and pray for them that shall kill thee, and come as quickly as I may to be with thee. Oh, father! I shall look upon thy dear face in Heaven! How I strive to picture thee; but I should like to see thee as thou really art. When I feel thy warm breath upon my cheek and rest in thy arms I feel I fear naught and want naught. But, oh, father! my mother taught me that thou art Christ's servant, and I am proud that thou art called to suffer, while the great ones deny the Lord.”
“My little maiden, then, loves my Christ?" asked Bunyan, bending with tearful eyes over the clear, white face, radiant with love the eyes could not speak.
“Aye, father, I have loved Him a little for a long time, but I have loved Him, I cannot tell how much, since these dark days began. When mother and I sat trembling and wondering how thou wert faring when from home in the time of trouble, how I prayed for thee, and I felt thy God was my God, and I would serve Him too.”
“But 'tis not enough, darling, to say that ye love Christ. What about thy sins?”
“Oh, father, I have confessed them all and repent of them, and I do accept Jesus as my Savior. I feel more certain every day that He has forgiven my sins. Is it not sweet to feel this, we are tied together by a bond that nothing can ever break?”
“Aye, it is, dear one; and in thy love and the love of thy mother I feel brave and strong. Ye help me not a little to stand without blenching in the time of trial.”
“The chief jailer is coming, Master Bunyan; it were better ye went now, good mistress. I will strain a point that ye come in again, “said the under-jailer, looking tenderly upon the blind girl.
“We are going, Master White," replied Elizabeth Bunyan, taking a hasty leave of her husband, who preserved his composure until the iron door closed behind his wife and child with a heavy thud; and then he flung himself upon his straw couch in an agony of prayer. What had he done to deserve such treatment? Had he robbed, slain, or refused to pay his taxes? No, he had merely prayed with a few poor people, to whom he purposed reading a chapter from the Bible, and explaining it withal. For this deadly offense, some five weeks afterward, in the month of January, 1661, he was placed at the bar in the ancient chapel of Herne.
Among the five magistrates upon the bench he readily detected the well-known faces of Sir Henry Chester and Sir George Blundell, whom he had so heavily offended while living at Elstow. But at least he might expect justice from men who owed so much to him.
The chairman, Sir John Kelynge, was an old acquaintance. During the times of the Commonwealth he had fawned upon the men in power, using the current religious phrases, and passing for a man who professed much religion. His overbearing, arrogant temper now and then shone out through the disguise; but few suspected the depth of his hypocrisy.
Before this person, now a bitter enemy of the truth he once professed to love, John Bunyan, laborer, was indicted for devilishly abstaining from attending church, and for upholding unlawful meetings or conventiclers. When asked "Why he did not come to the parish church," Bunyan replied, that he did not find this duty commanded in the Word of God.
“Tut, tut! but we are commanded to pray," burst out Justice Kelynge.
“But not by the prayer book," replied Bunyan.
“Sirrah, get thee a fool's cap! Ye know the prayer book hath been since the apostles' time," sneered Kelynge.
“He serves Beelzebub," interposed Chester; "I know the knaves and their peddler’s French and country trash. Marry, the world has come to a pretty pass when tinkers presume to teach. That belongs to those who are taught, and are high in station, good fellow.”
“But Jesus Christ thought not so," replied Bunyan, "else He had not chosen fishermen to preach His Gospel.”
“A truce upon thy prating! Dost thou think to catch me, ye sorry knave? Let me teach thee a little wholesome gospel. Let him that hath received a gift of tinkering mend his pots and kettles, and I will see to it that thou dost. But no more of thy talk. Thou speakest as if we were thine equals upon the ale bench. Hear your judgment: 'Ye must be had back to prison, and lie there for the three months following. Then if ye will not leave thy so-called preaching (marry me, a tinker preaching, forsooth!) and go to church, ye shall be banished the realm; and if, after ye be sentenced, ye be caught within the realm, ye shall stretch by the neck for it; I tell you plainly.'
Now, jailer, take him hence.”
“As to the preaching, I am at a point with you. If I were out of prison to-day, I will preach the Gospel tomorrow by the help of God," replied Bunyan, as the jailer rudely pulled him from the bar. And so to prison for twelve weary years went the tinker, who dared to think for himself, and arrived at other conclusions than those asserted by such men as King Charles the Second, Clarendon, and Justice Kelynge.
Sometimes, by the favor of the jailer, the rigor of his captivity was relaxed, and he was allowed not merely to visit his family, but to undertake longer journeys to London, Reading, or elsewhere. Once, when absent from jail, he became so unaccountably uneasy, that though the time had not arrived at which he had promised the jailer to return, he resolved to do so at once. As the hour was late, the jailer was surprised to see him, and complained of being called out of his bed to readmit him. But one of his enemies, suspecting the lenity with which Bunyan was treated arrived shortly after, and demanded to know whether the prisoners were all safe. Being assured that they were, he went in to ask whether Bunyan was in custody. "Yes," was the reply. "Let me see him," imperatively demanded the visitor. Bunyan was called, and immediately appeared in answer to the summons. When the inquisitor had departed, the jailer said to his prisoner, "You may go out when you like, for you know better when to return than I can tell you.”
Chapter 7
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.
Chapter 8
LOOSE, BUT NOT AT LIBERTY
In man's most dark extremity
Oft succor dawns from Heaven.
“Good news, dame; good news!" exclaimed Farmer Smith; of Lower Samsell, as he burst into the tiny dwelling-house in St. Cuthbert's, where Elizabeth Bunyan abode. "'Good news!' said the Chapman to us, as he opened his case of linen and lace. The man brought us word that the King meaneth to set all the religious prisoners free! John Bunyan will be at liberty anon! We saddle the gray mare, and my wife is in the pillion with me to bring the news! Put on thy wimple and let us to the jail, for good tidings cannot be carried too quickly. Now we are started! How light I feel! I could dance for very joy—would I had wings! There, boy, lead the horse. Put the blind maiden on the mare, and dame Bunyan and I will run to greet him first.”
It was evident the tidings had also reached the jail, for John White opened the heavy doors without hesitation. "I knew you would be here amain. Lord Edward Bruce sent his man over with the tidings. Go in, dame Bunyan, thy good man is putting his things together to bring them out.”
“A truce to his things; we will send for them; bring the man out," cried Smith. "Oh, happy day! Come on, old champion! Bring him out and let us give him a cheer!”
“Ay, that we will, in God's Name," cried the throng, who had arrived on similar errands. And when Bunyan emerged from his cell, such a shout rent the old rooftree as perhaps a prison never heard. The tinker was silent, but said he after, "The water stood in mine eyes," as he drew his blind child to his bosom; and with her and his Elizabeth emerged into the dewy freshness of the May morning. 1660, now 1672! Ah well-a-day, what a dreary time to spend in such a den as Bedford Jail! The joy in the tiny room in St. Cuthbert's was too holy a thing to be named; at last the family was complete.
A year and nearly two had now elapsed, and the tinker, made an old man by suffering, when he should have been in his prime, was doing his utmost to put his affairs in order, but it was a weary task. He returned one evening sad and heartsick at the tricks professing friends played him to prevent his obtaining what was his just due, and sat with little appetite to his scanty meal. Yet seeing the anxious look on his wife's face, he ate what he could, and then asked for the Bible. After he had read a little time, he closed the Book cheerfully, saying: “Well, brave heart, we shall get over the matter; but Mary is long coming.”
“She went out with Rogers, who called here this morning. He has been released from prison, for it was proved that the man he was supposed to have slain lived some weeks after receiving the blow, and he hastened here to tell us the news. While I was minding one thing and the other, he was talking to Mary in the casement, and they went out, saying they would be back anon.”
“Oh! here they are. But what is the matter?" exclaimed Bunyan, as he noted the anxious face of Rogers, and looked upon Mary.
“Sit down, or, better far, let her to rest, good mistress," said Rogers; "she is ill; and while they are gone I will tell thee," he whispered to Bunyan.
As the mother and daughter ascended the narrow stair, he broke silence by saying: “Bunyan, you must lose her; and I could die to save her. She has the smallpox, I fear, and cannot recover.”
The tinker started, but said nothing. He buried his face in his hands, and laid them on the table.
“When I left jail, as I came through the High Street," said Rogers, "I met one who urged me to hasten to his house to see a sick man. I made up my mind to go, but bidding him wait at the door, I came in here to tell thee of my release. I told Mary that the man's name was Swinton, who had done thee such wrong, and that 'twas said he was like to die; and, quoth she, "Twere a noble revenge to tell him of Christ,' and she went with me. When I got there I found it was smallpox, but before I knew it Mary had passed in before me, and laid her hand upon the wretch. He raved and cursed beyond description; all his past wickedness came back, and he gloried in it. Oh! it was fearful to see him. Thy daughter spoke gently to him, but he silenced her with his fearful words: 'What would the devil do but for such as me? I used to see the cant of the meetingers when I lived with my uncle, the elder; how they would whine in meeting, and cheat in business. Fool, that I was, I once was one of them; but I know better now. Oh, it was grand sport to hunt them through the fields, climbing trees to watch, or hunting them along the ditches, as one might a weasel. Thy father will be in prison the morn,' he said to Mary. 'Oh, merrie, catch!' First, he would glory in what he had done, then he would curse Foster who had set him to do it. I could do naught, and so brought Mary home. Oh, John, though I be many years older than she is, I do love her! Would to God that I might have made for her a home! I have pictured her by my fireside, rejoicing my heart with her gentle wisdom; now, alas, her earthly home will be the tomb! May I not stay with thee to keep watch, though medicine will not avail.”
That night, as the two men kept solemn and heart-breaking watch, John Bunyan was arrested and again lodged in jail. There, daily, Rogers visited him; and when death opened the eyes of the blind, and Mary Bunyan left the father she had never seen, and looked upon the King in His beauty, Rogers sat with his friend to comfort him during the agony we have all felt when the form of a beloved one is being laid forever from our sight. To Bunyan the anguish was the more intense, because she had died away from him, and without a kiss from his lips.
“Oh, Bunyan, but it was grand to be there, " said Rogers. "I never knew what religion was until I stood by her death-bed. It was wonderful to hear her speak, and look upon her radiant smile. She spoke so of thee, and said, 'Tell him that my mother and I will watch by the golden gates until he shall come. I cannot kiss him now; but tell him Mary will not forget in the long happy time we shall be together in Heaven. I shall be there first, and shall have something to show him when he comes into the City.'”
“Would I were there now," groaned the strong man. "Oh, to look upon her for one little moment! My poor afflicted one, God knows how my heart bleeds for thee! Day and night I thought of her. She was interwoven into my being more than any other of my children. Oh, my child, my child! Strangers are laying thee in the sod, and I not by to drop a tear upon the coffin! Woe is me; the Lord deals strangely!”
“Nay, but there are many who followed her," said Rogers. "I saw many a strong man weep as he watched the coffin go down the street. Even old Strange, the drunken tailor, paused to doff his hat and say, 'I hate her father, but she was like an angel in Heaven come to bless our street. Blessed be the ground she trod upon.' Oh, Bunyan, my heart is full like to break that we shall hear her sweet voice no more.”
And so in the little room over the gateway, in the jail on the bridge in which Bunyan was now confined, the two friends wept in the bitter agony for which there is no human relief, when the bleeding heart seems to be hopelessly rent and torn. God comfort them, and comfort all who cry for the beloved voice that shall never speak to them again!
Chapter 9
BEING DEAD, YET LIVETH
His pilgrimage of trial o'er,
He reached the rest which sin can break no more.
“Now, neighbor, we are waiting to hear this dream of thine," said Thomas Marsom. "Friend Smith, thou art just in time to hear this new fancy of Brother Bunyan, and canst keep Dr. Rogers quiet. Ye new prisoners know not what a treat it hath been to hear Bishop Bunyan' s book read.”
The scene was in the old town jail that stood upon Bedford Bridge. It had but just been repaired after lying in ruins, and here for some six months Bunyan was confined over the dark Ouse. Farmer Smith, of Lower Samsell, and his old friend Rogers were also imprisoned with him; and they with others were gathered in the apartment over the gateway, which was also a toll house. Here in 1676, Bunyan was reading to them the book he had begun to write, and which he termed The Pilgrim' s Progress.
He read on to the end of the break at the parting of Christian and Hopeful with the Shepherds on the Delectable Mountains, and then waited for the verdict of his audience.
“Very beautiful," said Rogers; "but it is so strange I never heard anything like it.”
“I feel it will offend some weak brethren," said Smith; "it might be like a Delilah to rob thee of thy strength. Be advised, friend Bunyan, and put it in the fire. 'Tis not like thy solid books that are meat and drink for men.”
“'Tis perhaps too harsh to say that, “said Rogers, "but I cannot counsel its printing. There is naught like it in men's hands, and it may give our young people a taste for foolish reading. Yes, I say, print it not.”
“It may do good, though," interposed William Hawkes, a deacon of Bunyan' s church and son-in-law of John Gifford. "I think a few might be printed just to see how it went.”
“Look here, lend it to me, John. I will take it to my room," said Thomas Marsom. "I will read it quietly by myself, and mayhap shall be able to form a better judgment than among this talking throng.”
By and by he returned, and found the company discussing the tidings that had just reached them. Bunyan's aged father had just passed away, leaving his sons and daughters one shilling each out of his little store. But the messenger who brought the tidings told them to their delight how in his closing days old Thomas Bunyan loved and repeated passages from The Jerusalem Sinner Saved of his gifted son. "I am that sinner; indeed I am, “said he; "yet, blessed be grace, I have found mercy. Would that I had not wasted my time in the follies that yield no peace.
They only make more soot upon the pot! Alack! that it hath been such a sad life with me! Yet am I glad that 'tis not too late. It might well have been; but tell my son John that I, through mercy, have 'Come and welcome to Jesus Christ,' as he often bade me; and the wicked old tinker will meet him in Heaven. “And so he closed his eyes and went to rest.
Marsom could scarcely contain himself to hear the conclusion of the messenger's story, and then, referring to what he had just been reading, exclaimed, "I say, print it! Print it! It is a wonderful book! I am sure it is God-inspired!”
And print it John Bunyan did. Eight years following he wrote the second part.
Shortly after the incident here recorded, Bunyan was released from prison, and re turned to his occupation. The larger part of his time he now spent in preaching and writing books that had a wonderful sale.
In the dark days that preceded the establishment of English liberty at the Revolution, John Bunyan felt with many alarmed at the dangers of the times. He, to provide against the perils of spoilation that had before consumed the fruits of his toils, executed a deed of gift by which all his property was made over to his wife.
But while others suffered, John Bunyan' s prison days were happily over, and he spent the close of his life in preaching and visiting among the Christian people of his charge. One warm evening during the month of July, 1688, he sat with his wife in the little room, termed the study, musing upon the days that were past, and talking by snatches of the persecutions that seemed probable in the near future.
While thus they were occupied, a young man was shown into the little room, who introduced himself as the son of Sir Wm. Beecher, who had been one of John Bunyan's judges. His father had, after serving the King, provoked his anger by refusing the last demand of tyranny; and James II had almost ruined him by the means of Jeffries, who was as delighted as his master to extort money and inflict pain. The old man, broken-hearted by his losses and the ingratitude of the master for whom he had sinned so grievously, retired to Reading with the few relics of his fortune, his estate passing to the supple Dr. Foster, who, after persecuting Dissenters, expressed himself as ready to protect them at the royal bidding, declaring that he wholly submitted himself to the King's pleasure. Old Sir William Beecher had taken sore offense at his only son, who had of late attended the meeting of Bunyan' s congregation, and had acquired a love for the doctrines preached by the tinker. Yet Sir William himself had begun to read The Pilgrim's Progress, and declared himself astonished at the wonderful book, as yet unknown to reading or rich men! "' Tis beautiful," he said; "I shall live to look upon the man that wrote it; and there is naught I would not do at his bidding! I would give him my best ring. How I should love to listen to his speech.”
Now, young Beecher having heard of this saying came to beg Bunyan to journey to Reading to speak with old Sir William, and remove the variance between father and son.
Bunyan at first hesitated. He was not strong. At one time it was feared that he would go into a consumption, and of late had been failing in health; but he did not like to refuse the request that Beecher urged with all his powers.
“I have been there often," said he. "Many a time during the troubles I have gone there disguised as a carter bearing a whip; but in sooth I am not so strong as once I was." Yet, after a pause, he said, "I will do thy bidding. John will attend to thee, Elizabeth; he is getting of years to manage the brazier business, and I will not be gone long.”
“My friend will lend thee a good nag," said Beecher. "Pray God your journey may well speed.”
Accordingly one morning a week later Bunyan started, his traveling bags well filled by the loving care of Elizabeth, who little thought, as she watched his manly figure turn the street corner, that she should never look upon him again until her Pilgrim had gone into the City of God. We never know. Would that some spirit could whisper, "It is the last time!" Yet perhaps it is best as it is. Any time may be the last; and we part with the possibility that it may be never to meet again below!
News traveled slowly in those days, but somewhere in the beginning of September news came to Bedford that on the 31st of August Bunyan' s pains were all ended. He had been well received in Reading, and had the deep joy of returning good for evil, and not only reconciling a father to his son, but of leading a soul from the city of destruction into the narrow way beyond the wicket gate. With a glad heart he returned through the forty miles of weary road between Reading and London. The heavy rain all the way drenched him, and weary and sick he alighted at the four-storied house on Snow Hill, London, where, under the sign of the Star, John Strudwick obtained his livelihood as a grocer. It was now near the middle of the month, and after a few days' rest the tinker preached his last sermon from John 13:1.
“Dost thou," said he, "see a soul that has the image of God in him? Love him, love him; say, this man and I must go to Heaven some day. Serve one another; do good for one another. If any wrong you, pray to God to right you, and love the brotherhood." With this beautiful sentence he closed his earthly ministry: "Consider that the holy God is your Father, and let this oblige you to live like the children of God, that ye may look your Father in the face with comfort another day." And so he finished the testimony God gave to him for men.
Meanwhile he was passing through the press his last book upon The Acceptable Sacrifice, showing the excellency of a broken heart and a contrite spirit.
Then the fever that had hold of him increased, and on Friday, 31st August, 1688, he passed away.
“I long for nothing so much as to be dissolved," he said, "and be with Christ. I am content to depart when He shall call me. I have long borne a crucified heart, and by grace I shall enter into rest. Stay me not, for I am bidden into the presence of the King! Weep not, for though I pass away the Lord abides with you and never faileth! Say to my flock that they cleave to the Lord and His truth, and strive to copy the example set before us in the Gospel. God give unto them and all the spirit of His Son, and bring them into rest.”
And so died John Bunyan, yet his name still liveth, and will live as long as the English language is learned and spoken, yea, longer than that, for as long as the story of the love of Christ continues to melt and move the hearts of men, so long will the story of Christian's progress from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City continue to be read by rich and poor, learned and unlearned, yea by everyone who seeketh after "that world which is to come.”
When the Sabbath following the Friday of his decease tidings came to Bedford, it seemed as if each family had lost its head. He had so grown into the love of many that once persecuted him; and many others who differed from him had learned to love and esteem him for his earnest fidelity and his broad and loving spirit.
None felt the blow more keenly than his ancient friend, John Rogers, who loved, when brighter days came to England, to recount the story of the dreamer' s boyhood, and of his no less marvelous manhood. Yet it seemed as if the new generation, much as they desired to understand, could not realize the goodness and greatness of John Bunyan like those who had lived with him, and knew the piety of his daily life.
Young William Beecher, some time afterward, married Elizabeth Bunyan, the dreamer' s daughter. For a long time he bitterly reproached himself as having in some sense caused the death of so good a man.
Bunyan' s ancient enemy, Sir George Blundell, lived and died a swearing, profane, sensual man. All his thoughts were of sport. The death of the man he had persecuted only preceded his own awful end by a few months. Then he died from a fall while intoxicated-his last words being a blasphemous speech, in which Bunyan' s name was somehow mentioned.
Sir Henry Chester long continued to advance in worldly prosperity, the changes of the time only seemed to make him more rich. But it was evident that his mind was disturbed, and men murmured that the suffering he had caused would not allow him to sleep. At length he became deranged, and while thus insane he murdered his wife, and dangerously wounded his eldest son, who had come to her rescue.
Wingate had been dead already some thirteen years, and his posterity became helpers of the Dissenters their ancestors persecuted.
Elizabeth Bunyan did not long survive her noble husband. In 1692 she followed the pilgrim into the City. "So the road was full of people to see her take her journey. But behold all the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots which were come down from above to accompany her to the city gate. So she came forth, and entered the river with a beckon of farewell to those who followed her. “The last words she was heard to say were, "I come, Lord, to be with Thee and bless Thee!"
"So her children and friends returned to their place, for those that waited for Christiana had carried her out of their sight. So she went and called and entered in at the gate with all the ceremonies of joy that her husband Christian had entered in before her. At her departure the children wept. But Mr. Greatheart and Mr. Valiant played upon the well-tuned cymbal and harp for joy.”
“And after that they shut up the gates, which, when I had seen, I wished myself among them.”