The Life of John Bunyan [37]
of the largest kind consistent with his character of a
prisoner. The church books show that he was occasionally present
at their meetings, and was employed on the business of the
congregation. Nay, even his preaching, which was the cause of his
imprisonment, was not forbidden. "I followed," he says, writing of
this period, "my wonted course of preaching, taking all occasions
that were put into my hand to visit the people of God." But this
indulgence was very brief and was brought sharply to an end. It
was plainly irregular, and depended on the connivance of his
jailer. We cannot be surprised that when it came to the
magistrates' ears - "my enemies," Bunyan rather unworthily calls
them - they were seriously displeased. Confounding Bunyan with the
Fifth Monarchy men and other turbulent sectaries, they imagined
that his visits to London had a political object, "to plot, and
raise division, and make insurrections," which, he honestly adds,
"God knows was a slander." The jailer was all but "cast out of his
place," and threatened with an indictment for breach of trust,
while his own liberty was so seriously "straitened" that he was
prohibited even "to look out at the door." The last time Bunyan's
name appears as present at a church meeting is October 28, 1661,
nor do we see it again till October 9, 1668, only four years before
his twelve years term of imprisonment expired.
But though his imprisonment was not so severe, nor his prison quite
so narrow and wretched as some word-painters have described them,
during the greater part of the time his condition was a dreary and
painful one, especially when spent, as it sometimes was, "under
cruel and oppressive jailers." The enforced separation from his
wife and children, especially his tenderly loved blind daughter,
Mary, was a continually renewed anguish to his loving heart. "The
parting with them," he writes, "hath often been to me as pulling
the flesh from the bones; and that not only because I am somewhat
too fond of these great mercies, but also because I should often
have brought to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants my
poor family was like to meet with, should I be taken from them;
especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer to my heart than all
beside. Poor child, thought I, thou must be beaten, thou must beg,
thou must suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand
calamities, though I cannot now endure the wind should blow on
thee. O, the thoughts of the hardships my blind one might go under
would break my heart to pieces." He seemed to himself like a man
pulling down his house on his wife and children's head, and yet he
felt, "I must do it; O, I must do it." He was also, he tells us,
at one time, being but "a young prisoner," greatly troubled by the
thoughts that "for aught he could tell," his "imprisonment might
end at the gallows," not so much that he dreaded death as that he
was apprehensive that when it came to the point, even if he made "a
scrabbling shift to clamber up the ladder," he might play the
coward and so do discredit to the cause of religion. "I was
ashamed to die with a pale face and tottering knees for such a
cause as this." The belief that his imprisonment might be
terminated by death on the scaffold, however groundless, evidently
weighed long on his mind. The closing sentences of his third
prison book, "Christian Behaviour," published in 1663, the second
year of his durance, clearly point to such an expectation. "Thus
have I in few words written to you before I die, . . . not knowing
the shortness of my life, nor the hindrances that hereafter I may
have of serving my God and you." The ladder of his apprehensions
was, as Mr. Froude has said, "an imaginary ladder," but it was very
real to Bunyan. "Oft I was as if I was on the ladder with a rope
about my neck." The thought of it, as his autobiography shows,
caused him some of his deepest searchings
prisoner. The church books show that he was occasionally present
at their meetings, and was employed on the business of the
congregation. Nay, even his preaching, which was the cause of his
imprisonment, was not forbidden. "I followed," he says, writing of
this period, "my wonted course of preaching, taking all occasions
that were put into my hand to visit the people of God." But this
indulgence was very brief and was brought sharply to an end. It
was plainly irregular, and depended on the connivance of his
jailer. We cannot be surprised that when it came to the
magistrates' ears - "my enemies," Bunyan rather unworthily calls
them - they were seriously displeased. Confounding Bunyan with the
Fifth Monarchy men and other turbulent sectaries, they imagined
that his visits to London had a political object, "to plot, and
raise division, and make insurrections," which, he honestly adds,
"God knows was a slander." The jailer was all but "cast out of his
place," and threatened with an indictment for breach of trust,
while his own liberty was so seriously "straitened" that he was
prohibited even "to look out at the door." The last time Bunyan's
name appears as present at a church meeting is October 28, 1661,
nor do we see it again till October 9, 1668, only four years before
his twelve years term of imprisonment expired.
But though his imprisonment was not so severe, nor his prison quite
so narrow and wretched as some word-painters have described them,
during the greater part of the time his condition was a dreary and
painful one, especially when spent, as it sometimes was, "under
cruel and oppressive jailers." The enforced separation from his
wife and children, especially his tenderly loved blind daughter,
Mary, was a continually renewed anguish to his loving heart. "The
parting with them," he writes, "hath often been to me as pulling
the flesh from the bones; and that not only because I am somewhat
too fond of these great mercies, but also because I should often
have brought to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants my
poor family was like to meet with, should I be taken from them;
especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer to my heart than all
beside. Poor child, thought I, thou must be beaten, thou must beg,
thou must suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand
calamities, though I cannot now endure the wind should blow on
thee. O, the thoughts of the hardships my blind one might go under
would break my heart to pieces." He seemed to himself like a man
pulling down his house on his wife and children's head, and yet he
felt, "I must do it; O, I must do it." He was also, he tells us,
at one time, being but "a young prisoner," greatly troubled by the
thoughts that "for aught he could tell," his "imprisonment might
end at the gallows," not so much that he dreaded death as that he
was apprehensive that when it came to the point, even if he made "a
scrabbling shift to clamber up the ladder," he might play the
coward and so do discredit to the cause of religion. "I was
ashamed to die with a pale face and tottering knees for such a
cause as this." The belief that his imprisonment might be
terminated by death on the scaffold, however groundless, evidently
weighed long on his mind. The closing sentences of his third
prison book, "Christian Behaviour," published in 1663, the second
year of his durance, clearly point to such an expectation. "Thus
have I in few words written to you before I die, . . . not knowing
the shortness of my life, nor the hindrances that hereafter I may
have of serving my God and you." The ladder of his apprehensions
was, as Mr. Froude has said, "an imaginary ladder," but it was very
real to Bunyan. "Oft I was as if I was on the ladder with a rope
about my neck." The thought of it, as his autobiography shows,
caused him some of his deepest searchings