BY THE REV. DONALD BEATON, WICK.
V.—BUNYAN’S “PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.”
IT now remains for us to take up the narrative of Bunyan’s life where we left off in last article. After his awakening to a sense of the realities of eternity, he desired to find a preacher who would act to him as a spiritual father; this he found in John Gifford. This man had a remarkable history. At the beginning of the Civil War he was on the side of the King, and had the rank of major in the King’s army. In 1648 one more desperate struggle was made to win back the county of Kent for King Charles. The Royalist and Parliamentary forces met at Rochester, but the most desperate part of the fight was at Maidstone. The Parliamentary forces drove the Royalists before them from thicket to thicket until the town was reached. Street by street then was fought for, and what with the groans of the wounded, the warring of the elements—for a storm was raging—and the thundering of artillery, the day came to be remembered as one of the bloodiest in the history of the Civil War. The battle began at seven in the morning, and it was not until ten o’clock next morning that Fairfax, the commander of the Parliamentary forces, was assured of victory. Three hundred of the Royalists were left dead in the streets, and 1,400 surrendered as prisoners. Among these was John Gifford, and from the prominent part he had taken in the rising he was, with some others, judged worthy of death. The night previous to his execution he was visited by his sister, who, finding his guards drunk, advised him to escape. This he managed to do successfully, and after hiding for some time until the search was over, he went to London, whence he came to Bedford, where he practised as a physician. He led an abandoned life, and was much given to drinking and betting. It so happened that on one occasion, after he had lost heavily in some deal, that he felt his enmity rising against God to an extraordinary degree. While in this state of mind, he read a certain book by one Bolton. Something in this book caught his attention, and so wrought on his mind that he fell under an overwhelming sense of sin. He was in this state for over a month, when God was pleased to discover to him that his sins were freely forgiven; and it is left as a testimony concerning him that after this he never lost the light of God’s countenance, not for an hour, with the exception only of about two days before he died. Such is a brief history of the man to whose ministrations Bunyan attended.
Matters went on fairly smoothly at the little church of Bedford until the year 1660, when that ever-to-be-lamented event called the happy Restoration ushered in a state of matters the seeds of which England had to reap with tears. The one man who could guide the ship of state, and stand fearless on the deck amidst the raging waves and contrary winds of a nation’s passions and wild desires, was dead, and the man who ascended the English throne, in the person of Charles II., and who was received with the jubilant shouts of the English nation, and, sad to say, the Scottish nation too, was already a perjured wretch, destined to end his days, as he lived them, amid sensuality and vice. The presence of the King in England soon changed matters ecclesiastically. The magistrates at Bedford passed an order for the restoration of the Book of Common Prayer. Bunyan paid no attention to the order, with the result that he found himself charged with “devilishly and perniciously abstaining from coming to church to hear divine service, and for being a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventicles, to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of this kingdom, contrary to the laws of our sovereign lord the King.” He was ordered to be sent to prison for three months for not attending the parish church. At the end of this time, according to the terms of the Conventicle Act under which he was convicted, an opportunity was given him of recanting his former opinions, failing which he was “to abjure this realm of England, and all other the Queen’s Majesty’s dominions, for ever.” Bunyan, of course, had no thought of recanting, and had to spend twelve long and dreary years in prison. During this long imprisonment two familiar friends beguiled the monotony of the years—his Bible and Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. This was his library, “The least and the best,” says one who visited him in prison, “that ever I saw.” It was while in prison he produced many of his works. It was here that the famous Grace Abounding was composed. At the end of twelve years Bunyan was released and enjoyed liberty for three years when he was again cast into prison. Dr. Brown, in his Life of Bunyan, after a careful study of the subject, gives it as his opinion that it was during this second imprisonment that The Pilgrim’s Progress was written, and that the prison was the town gaol on Bedford Bridge. The work opens with the striking sentence—”As I walked through the wilderness of this world I lighted upon a certain place where was a den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and as I slept I dreamed a dream.” The work first saw the light in 1678, but was greatly improved upon in later editions. It attracted attention at once, three editions being called for in one year. In 1683 a serious attempt was made by an unknown author to improve upon The Pilgrim’s Progress. The writer regarded Bunyan’s work as written in too light a vein, and by way of a wholesome counteractive made his own so heavy that it has mercifully passed into well-merited oblivion. Other attempts of the same kind were made, to which Bunyan refers at the beginning of his Second Part:
I.e., Queen Elizabeth, in whose reign the Conventicle Act was passed (1593).
“Some have of late to counterfeit
My Pilgrim, to their own my title set;
Yea others, half my name and title too
Have stitched to their own book to make them do;
But yet they by their features do declare
Themselves not mine to be. whosoever they are.”
This Second Part was published early in 1684. Bunyan has here some of his most beautiful descriptions. The contrast between his description of the Valley of Humiliation in reference to Christian and Christiana is very striking: “To him it was a scene of awful conflict with Apollyon; to her and her companions it was a tranquil dwelling in green pastures and by still waters.” Here Mercy found sweet solace to her gentle spirit in the great things done by the King. Mr. Fearing, too, found here something congenial to his austere spirit: “Here he would lie down, embrace the ground, and kiss the very flowers that grew in this valley. He would be up every morning by break of day, tracing and walking to and fro in this valley.” “It is a valley to the meek and lowly that is ever green and beautiful with lilies. Our Lord Himself had His country house in this valley, and loved much to be there, loved much to walk these meadows, finding the air pleasant.” The Second Part is generally recognised as not such a finished production as the First, but it bears the impress of Bunyan’s unrivalled genius, and is by no means an unworthy successor to the First Part. As to the originality of this work, there has been a great deal of useless writing. Dr. Brown in his biography has discussed the matter as fully as there is any need for, and he concludes by saying that on this question Bunyan has spoken with unmistakeable plainness:
“Some say The Pilgrim’s Progress is not mine
Insinuating as if I would shine
In name, and fame, by the work of another.”
To this he answers:
“Manner and matter, too, was all mine own,
Nor was it unto any mortal known
Till I had done it. Nor did any then
By books, by writs, by tongues, or hand or pen,
Add five words to it, or wrote half a line
Thereof: the whole and every whit is mine.”
Well may Dr. Brown say that a testimony like this from such a man is decisive. As a mere literary production it is one of the great masterpieces of literature. Its perfect spontaneous, its freedom from signs of toil, its lack of inartistic traces, have made it to be read by men who would spurn its teaching were it presented in another form. Macaulay’s essay and Froude’s sketch of Bunyan are examples of how men of the world regard this work as one of the treasures of the literary world. But whatever be its place in literature, and that does not so much concern us here, its place as a religious classic is supreme—it stands peerless among the works of men. No book, after the Bible, has had such a circulation. Its remarkable delineation of Christian character appeals to the true child of God, whether he be under the inclement skies of our northern climes or under the clear blue skies of Africa. Its fine balance, lack of exaggeration, and the remarkable power of giving feelings and experiences all the reality and vividness of living persons, appeals alike to the understanding and the imagination with a fascinating power. Innocence, Prudence, Piety, and Discretion cease to be mere abstractions after Bunyan’s magic pen has described them. With what masterly but simple touches he makes Pliable, Giant Despair, and Talkative stand out before us, and their characters are forever impressed upon our minds as objects of commiseration, dread, or pity. But after all explanations have been given of the spell that this book has exercised over young and old, learned and unlearned, rich and poor, since it was first published, it may be safely said that, after all, the true explanation of this fascination is its humanness. It describes the struggles of the human heart, its fears, its hopes; it tells of the present condition of things, and points forward to the things that are yet to come. These, after all, are the most momentous questions that are forever rising up before the human mind and crying aloud for solution. And when it is borne in mind that all these questions are dealt with as the Bible deals with them, and that the solutions that Bunyan gives are the solutions that the Bible gave, one can then understand how The Pilgrim’s Progress has been of such interest to the children of God of every country and time.
One might thus go on speaking of this wonderful book; but this article will not have been written in vain if it sends back some of its readers to the study of a book that they may have read in early years, enjoying its beautiful and homely descriptions while they little understood or appreciated its spiritual meaning. It has been translated into French, German, Gaelic, Dutch, Welsh, Irish, Swedish, Polish, Danish, Icelandic, Norwegian, Finnish, Lettish, Esthonian, Russ, Eskimo, Servian, Bulgarian, Bohemian, Roumanian, Slavonian, Breton, Italian, Spanish, Modern Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, Syriac, etc., in all, ninety-five languages and dialects. Various attempts have been made to improve it—Arminians would like it to speak their theology, and Ritualists have foolishly attempted to turn the Pilgrim into one deeply concerned for such important questions as the eastern position, etc.; but all these have miserably failed.
Perhaps, by way of conclusion, an extract or two may be given as an illustration of Bunyan’s style and his power in delineating Christian experience. Here, for instance, is Mr. Greatheart’s description of Mr. Fearing—one of the finest pieces in The Pilgrim’s Progress. Honest asks Mr. Greatheart, “Well, then, pray let us hear a little of him, and how he managed himself under your conduct?” Greatheart replies: “Why he was always afraid that he would come short of whither he had a desire to go. Everything frightened him that he heard anybody speak of, if it had the least appearance of opposition in it. I have heard that he lay roaring at the Slough of Despond for above a month together; nor durst he, for all he saw several go over before him, venture, though they many of them offered to lend him their hands. He would not go back again neither. The Celestial City—he said he should die if he came not to it; and yet he was dejected at every difficulty, and stumbled at every straw that anybody cast in his way. Well, after he had lain at the Slough of Despond a great while, as I have told you, one sunshiny morning, I don’t know how, he ventured, and so got over, but when he was over he would scarce believe it. He had, I think, a Slough of Despond in his mind, a slough that he carried everywhere with him, or else he could never have been what he was. So he came up to the gate, you know what I mean, that stands at the head of this way, and there also he stood a good while before he would venture to knock. When the gate was opened, he would give back and give place to others, and say that he was not worthy. For all he got before some to the gate, yet many of them went in before him. There the poor man would stand shaking and shrinking; I dare say it would have pitied one’s heart to see him. . . . When we went also from the house Beautiful, down the hill, into the Valley of Humiliation, he went down as well as ever I saw a man in my life; for he cared not how mean he was, so he might be happy at last. Yea, I think there was a kind of sympathy between that valley and him; for I never saw him better in all his pilgrimage than when he was in that valley. Here he would lie down, embrace the ground, and kiss the very flowers that grew in this valley (Lam. iii. 27-29). He would now be up every morning by break of day, tracing and walking to and fro in the valley. But when he was at the entrance of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I thought I should have lost my man: not for that he had any inclination to go back; that he always abhorred; but he was ready to die for fear. Oh, the hobgoblins will have me, the hobgoblins will have me, cried he; and I could not beat him out on’t. He made such a noise, and such an outcry here, that had they but heard him it was enough to encourage them to come and fall upon us. But this I took very great notice of, that this valley was as quiet when we went through it as ever I knew it before or since. I suppose those enemies here had now a special check from our Lord and a command not to meddle until Mr. Fearing had passed over it. It would be too tedious to tell you of all, we will therefore only mention a passage or two more. When he was come to Vanity Fair, I thought he would have fought with all the men in the fair. I feared there we should both have been knocked on the head, so hot was he against their fooleries. Upon the Enchanted Ground he was also very wakeful. But when he was come at the river where was no bridge, there again he was in a heavy case. Now, now, he said, he should be drowned forever, and so never see that Face with comfort that he had come so many miles to behold. And here also I took notice of what was very remarkable: the water of that river was lower at this time than ever I saw it in all my life; so we went over at last, not much above wetshod. When he was going up to the gate I began to take leave of him, and to wish him a good reception above. So he said, I shall, I shall; then parted we asunder, and I saw him no more. Then it seems he was well at last, says Honest. Yes, yes, says Great-heart; I never had a doubt of him. He was above many tender of sin: he was so afraid of doing injuries to others that he would deny himself of that which was lawful, because he would not offend.” The description of Christian’s passing over the river—his fears and his assuring cry at last as he felt the bottom, “Oh, I see Him again!”—and the concluding scene of the Second Part where the other pilgrims pass over to the Celestial City, are scenes as impressive and touching as can be read in our language.