The Life of John Bunyan [47]
of St.
Augustine." These, however, though describing a like spiritual
conflict, are couched in a more cultured style, and rise to a
higher metaphysical region than Bunyan was capable of attaining to.
His level is a lower one, but on that level Bunyan is without a
rival. Never has the history of a soul convinced of the reality of
eternal perdition in its most terrible form as the most certain of
all possible facts, and of its own imminent danger of hopeless,
irreversible doom - seeing itself, to employ his own image,
hanging, as it were, over the pit of hell by a thin line, which
might snap any moment - been portrayed in more nervous and awe-
inspiring language. And its awfulness is enhanced by its self-
evident truth. Bunyan was drawing no imaginary picture of what
others might feel, but simply telling in plain unadorned language
what he had felt. The experience was a very tremendous reality to
him. Like Dante, if he had not actually been in hell, he had been
on the very threshold of it; he had in very deed traversed "the
Valley of the Shadow of Death," had heard its "hideous noises," and
seen "the Hobgoblins of the Pit." He "spake what he knew and
testified what he had seen." Every sentence breathes the most
tremendous earnestness. His words are the plainest, drawn from his
own homely vernacular. He says in his preface, which will amply
repay reading, as one of the most characteristic specimens of his
style, that he could have stepped into a higher style, and adorned
his narrative more plentifully. But he dared not. "God did not
play in convincing him. The devil did not play in tempting him.
He himself did not play when he sunk as into a bottomless pit, and
the pangs of hell caught hold on him. Nor could he play in
relating them. He must be plain and simple and lay down the thing
as it was. He that liked it might receive it. He that did not
might produce a better." The remembrance of "his great sins, his
great temptations, his great fears of perishing for ever, recalled
the remembrance of his great help, his great support from heaven,
the great grace God extended to such a wretch as he was." Having
thus enlarged on his own experience, he calls on his spiritual
children, for whose use the work was originally composed and to
whom it is dedicated, - "those whom God had counted him worthy to
beget to Faith by his ministry in the Word" - to survey their own
religious history, to "work diligently and leave no corner
unsearched." He would have them "remember their tears and prayers
to God; how they sighed under every hedge for mercy. Had they
never a hill Mizar (Psa. xlii. 6) to remember? Had they forgotten
the close, the milkhouse, the stable, the barn, where God visited
their souls? Let them remember the Word on which the Lord had
caused them to hope. If they had sinned against light, if they
were tempted to blaspheme, if they were down in despair, let them
remember that it had been so with him, their spiritual father, and
that out of them all the Lord had delivered him." This dedication
ends thus: "My dear children, the milk and honey is beyond this
wilderness. God be merciful to you, and grant you be not slothful
to go in to possess the land."
This remarkable book, as we learn from the title-page, was "written
by his own hand in prison." It was first published by George
Larkin in London, in 1666, the sixth year of his imprisonment, the
year of the Fire of London, about the time that he experienced his
first brief release. As with "The Pilgrim's Progress," the work
grew in picturesque detail and graphic power in the author's hand
after its first appearance. The later editions supply some of the
most interesting personal facts contained in the narrative, which
were wanting when it first issued from the press. His two escapes
from drowning, and from the supposed sting of an adder; his being
drawn as a soldier, and
Augustine." These, however, though describing a like spiritual
conflict, are couched in a more cultured style, and rise to a
higher metaphysical region than Bunyan was capable of attaining to.
His level is a lower one, but on that level Bunyan is without a
rival. Never has the history of a soul convinced of the reality of
eternal perdition in its most terrible form as the most certain of
all possible facts, and of its own imminent danger of hopeless,
irreversible doom - seeing itself, to employ his own image,
hanging, as it were, over the pit of hell by a thin line, which
might snap any moment - been portrayed in more nervous and awe-
inspiring language. And its awfulness is enhanced by its self-
evident truth. Bunyan was drawing no imaginary picture of what
others might feel, but simply telling in plain unadorned language
what he had felt. The experience was a very tremendous reality to
him. Like Dante, if he had not actually been in hell, he had been
on the very threshold of it; he had in very deed traversed "the
Valley of the Shadow of Death," had heard its "hideous noises," and
seen "the Hobgoblins of the Pit." He "spake what he knew and
testified what he had seen." Every sentence breathes the most
tremendous earnestness. His words are the plainest, drawn from his
own homely vernacular. He says in his preface, which will amply
repay reading, as one of the most characteristic specimens of his
style, that he could have stepped into a higher style, and adorned
his narrative more plentifully. But he dared not. "God did not
play in convincing him. The devil did not play in tempting him.
He himself did not play when he sunk as into a bottomless pit, and
the pangs of hell caught hold on him. Nor could he play in
relating them. He must be plain and simple and lay down the thing
as it was. He that liked it might receive it. He that did not
might produce a better." The remembrance of "his great sins, his
great temptations, his great fears of perishing for ever, recalled
the remembrance of his great help, his great support from heaven,
the great grace God extended to such a wretch as he was." Having
thus enlarged on his own experience, he calls on his spiritual
children, for whose use the work was originally composed and to
whom it is dedicated, - "those whom God had counted him worthy to
beget to Faith by his ministry in the Word" - to survey their own
religious history, to "work diligently and leave no corner
unsearched." He would have them "remember their tears and prayers
to God; how they sighed under every hedge for mercy. Had they
never a hill Mizar (Psa. xlii. 6) to remember? Had they forgotten
the close, the milkhouse, the stable, the barn, where God visited
their souls? Let them remember the Word on which the Lord had
caused them to hope. If they had sinned against light, if they
were tempted to blaspheme, if they were down in despair, let them
remember that it had been so with him, their spiritual father, and
that out of them all the Lord had delivered him." This dedication
ends thus: "My dear children, the milk and honey is beyond this
wilderness. God be merciful to you, and grant you be not slothful
to go in to possess the land."
This remarkable book, as we learn from the title-page, was "written
by his own hand in prison." It was first published by George
Larkin in London, in 1666, the sixth year of his imprisonment, the
year of the Fire of London, about the time that he experienced his
first brief release. As with "The Pilgrim's Progress," the work
grew in picturesque detail and graphic power in the author's hand
after its first appearance. The later editions supply some of the
most interesting personal facts contained in the narrative, which
were wanting when it first issued from the press. His two escapes
from drowning, and from the supposed sting of an adder; his being
drawn as a soldier, and