1678/1684 2026
This is an AI modernization of The Pilgrim's Progress into contemporary English. The original is available from Standard Ebooks. Also available as an epub.
John Bunyan was a tinker's son from a village outside Bedford, born in 1628, with a year or two of schooling and no other education at all. He served in the Parliamentary army as a teenager, came home, took up his father's trade, and started preaching. After the monarchy was restored he was arrested for preaching without a licence and spent twelve years in Bedford jail, having refused several offers of release on condition that he stop. Part of this book was written there. The man sleeping in a den at the first sentence is Bunyan in prison, and that is the only thing in the volume a note explains.
The first part came out in 1678 and the second in 1684. For the next two centuries it was the book an English-speaking Protestant household owned if it owned two books, the other being the Bible, and a great deal of English owes its shape to it — a slough of despond, a vanity fair, a hill called Difficulty, a giant named Despair.
Most editions print only the first part. Both are here. Part One is a man alone: Christian leaves his city with his fingers in his ears so he cannot hear his wife and children calling him back, and everything that happens to him afterwards happens to him by himself, in terror. Part Two sends Christiana down the same road with four sons, a friend, a hired guide and a good deal of company, and its argument is the opposite one — that the weak all get across. Mr. Feeble-mind and Mr. Ready-to-halt on his crutches arrive. It is the warmer book and much the funnier, and it should not be read in the first part's register.
The difficulty for a modern reader is not the old words, because there are almost none. Bunyan wrote deliberately plain English for people like himself and his sentences are short. The difficulty is the ordinary-looking words that have moved. Conversation means conduct, not talk, and it occurs eleven times in Part One. Want means lack. Let means hinder. Prevent means go before, conceit means opinion, and a professor is someone who professes a faith. A reader trips on hath and knows something is wrong; the same reader takes conversation for chat and comes away confident and mistaken.
Bunyan's opinions are his own and are printed as he had them, including what happens to Ignorance, who walks the whole road, and the jokes at the expense of the Roman church.
The Author's Apology for His Book
Part One: Christian
The Valley of Humiliation and Apollyon
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
Doubting Castle and Giant Despair
The Land of Beulah and the River
Part Two: Christiana
The Author's Way of Sending Forth His Second Part
The Hill Difficulty and the Lions
The Valley of the Shadow, and Old Honest
Mr. Feeble-mind and Mr. Ready-to-halt
Mr. Stand-fast and Madam Bubble
When I first took my pen in hand to write like this, I did not for a moment think that I should ever make a little book in such a style. In fact I had begun to make another; and when that was nearly done, before I knew it, I had started this. And this is how it was. I, writing of the way and race of saints, in this our gospel day, fell suddenly into an allegory about their journey, and the road to glory, in more than twenty things that I set down. That done, I had another twenty in my head; and then they started to multiply again, like sparks that fly up off the coals of a fire. Well then, I thought, if you breed as fast as that, I'll put you by yourselves, in case at last you go on for ever, and eat out the book that I am already busy with. So that is what I did. But even then I did not mean to show the world my pen and ink in such a style. I only meant to make I knew not what — nor did I set out to please my neighbour by it. No, not I. I did it to satisfy my own self. Nor did I spend on this scribble of mine anything but odd spare hours; nor did I mean anything by it but to divert myself from worse thoughts that make me go wrong. So I set pen to paper with delight, and quickly had my thoughts in black and white. Because, having got hold of my method by the end, it came as fast as I pulled; and so I wrote it down, until at last it came to be, for length and breadth, the size that you see here. Well, when I had put my ends together like this, I showed them to some others, to find out whether they would condemn them or approve of them. And some said, Let them live; and some, Let them die. Some said, John, print it. Others said, Not so. Some said, It might do good. Others said, No. So now I was in a difficulty, and could not see which was the best thing for me to do. At last I thought: since you are so divided, I will print it — and so the matter is settled. Because, I thought, some clearly want it done, although some others do not run that way. So to find out which side advised the best, I thought it right to put it to the test. I thought further that if I now refused the ones who wanted it, and would not oblige them, I did not know but I might be keeping them from something that would be a great delight. And to those who were against its coming out I said: I am unwilling to offend you; but since your brothers are pleased with it, hold off from judging till you have seen more. If you will not read it, then leave it alone. Some love the meat, and some love picking the bone. Yes, and to smooth them down a little further, I reasoned it out with them like this: May I not write in a style like this? And in this method too, and yet not miss my end, which is your good? Why should it not be done? Dark clouds bring water when the bright bring none. Yes — dark or bright, if they let their silver drops come down, the earth, by yielding crops, gives praise to both, and finds fault with neither, but stores up the fruit they yield together. Yes, it mixes them so thoroughly that in her fruit nobody can tell this from that. They suit her well when she is hungry; but if she is full, she spews them both out and makes their blessing nothing. You see the ways a fisherman will take to catch a fish; what devices he will make. See how he sets his whole wit to the job, and all his snares, his lines, his rods, his hooks and nets. And yet there are fish that neither hook nor line nor snare nor net nor device can make yours: they must be groped for, and tickled too, or they will not be caught, whatever you do. How the fowler goes about catching his game by all sorts of means, more than a man could name! His guns, his nets, his limed twigs, light and bell; he creeps, he walks, he stands; and who could tell the whole list of his postures? And yet not one of these will make him master of whatever birds he please. No, for this one he must pipe and whistle — and if he does, that other bird he'll miss. If a pearl can live inside a toad's head, and can be found inside an oyster shell too; if things that promise nothing hold inside them what is better than gold — then who will scorn, having some inkling of it, to look there, so that he may find it? Now, my little book, although it lacks all those decorations that would make it take with this man or that, is not without those things that far excel what lives in fine but empty notions. "Well, I am still not fully satisfied that this book of yours will stand up when it is properly tested." Why, what is the matter? "It is dark." And what of that? "But it is made up." What of that, I ask? Some men, with made-up words as dark as mine, make truth throw sparks and set its rays to shine. "But they lack solidity." Speak your mind, man. "They drown the weak; metaphors make us blind." Solidity is certainly what suits the pen of a man who writes of divine things to men. But must I necessarily lack solidity because I speak by metaphors? Were not God's laws, his gospel laws, in the old days set out by types and shadows and metaphors? And yet no sober man will be quick to find fault with them, in case he should be found assaulting the highest wisdom. No — he stoops instead, and tries to find out what, by pins and loops, by calves and sheep, by heifers and by rams, by birds and herbs, and by the blood of lambs, God is saying to him. And happy is the man who finds the light and grace that are in them. So do not be too quick to conclude that I lack solidity, or that I am crude. Not everything solid-looking is solid; nor should we despise everything in parables, in case we take up lightly what is most harmful and rob our souls of the things that are good. My dark and cloudy words only hold the truth, as cabinets enclose the gold. The prophets used metaphors a great deal to set out truth; and anybody who considers Christ and his apostles too will plainly see that truths are wrapped in such cloaks to this day. Am I afraid to say that holy scripture, which for its style and phrasing beats all wit, is everywhere so full of all these things — dark figures, allegories? And yet there springs from that same book that brightness, and those rays of light that turn our darkest nights to days. Come — let my critic look now at his own life and find darker lines there than any he finds in my book; yes, and let him know as well that in his best things there are worse lines too. If we may only stand before impartial men, I will lay ten against his one that they will take my meaning in these lines far better than they take his lies in silver shrines. Come — truth, even in swaddling clothes, I find, informs the judgment and puts right the mind; pleases the understanding, makes the will submit; and fills the memory as well with what our imaginations like; and it tends to quiet our troubles too. Sound words, I know, are what Timothy is to use, and old wives' fables are what he is to refuse; but nowhere did grave Paul forbid him the use of parables — in which lay hidden that gold, those pearls, those precious stones that were worth digging for, and digging with great care. Let me add one word more. O man of God, are you offended? Do you wish I had put my matter out in another dress? Or that I had been more direct in things? Let me put three things; then I submit to my betters, as is fitting. First. I do not find that I am denied the use of this method of mine, so long as I put no abuse on the words, the things or the readers, and am not crude in my handling of figure or comparison or in applying them; but rather seek in every way I can to advance the truth, one way or another. Denied, did I say? No — I have leave for it, and example too, and that from men who have pleased God better by their words or ways than any man alive today — leave to express my mind like this, to declare things to you that are the most excellent there are. Second. I find that men as high as trees will write in dialogue, and nobody slights them for writing so. Indeed, if they abuse the truth, then cursed be they and the craft they use to that end. But still, let truth go free to make her sallies upon you and me whichever way it pleases God. Because who knows better than the one who first taught us to plough how to guide our minds and pens for his design? And he makes lowly things usher in the divine. Third. I find that holy scripture in many places has a likeness to this method, where the case calls for one thing to be used to set out another. So I may use it, and yet smother none of truth's golden beams. In fact by this method I may make it throw out its rays as bright as day. And now, before I put my pen away, I will show what good my book may do; and then commit both you and it into that Hand which pulls the strong down and makes the weak stand. This book chalks out in front of your eyes the man who is looking for the everlasting prize. It shows you where he comes from, where he goes, what he leaves undone, and also what he does. It shows you too how he runs, and runs, until he comes to the gate of glory. It shows as well who set out for life at full speed, as though they meant to win the lasting crown; and here you may see the reason too why they lose their labour, and die like fools. This book will make a traveller of you, if you will be governed by its advice; it will direct you to the Holy Land, if you will understand its directions. Yes — it will make the lazy man active, and make the blind see delightful things as well. Are you after something rare and profitable? Would you like to see a truth inside a fable? Are you forgetful? Would you like to remember from New Year's Day to the last of December? Then read my fancies; they will stick like burrs, and to the helpless may be comforters. This book is written in the kind of language that may take hold of listless people's minds. It seems a novelty, and yet contains nothing but sound and honest gospel strains. Would you like to divert yourself from melancholy? Would you be cheerful, and yet be far from folly? Would you read riddles, and their explanation? Or else be drowned in your own contemplation? Do you love food you have to pick at? Or would you see a man up in the clouds, and hear him speak to you? Would you be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or would you in a moment laugh and weep? Would you like to lose yourself and take no harm, and find yourself again without a charm? Would you read yourself, and read you know not what, and yet know whether you are blessed or not, by reading the very same lines? Oh, then come here, and lay my book, your head, and your heart together.
As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I came upon a certain place where there was a den, and I lay down in that place to sleep. And as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and look — "I saw a man dressed in rags, standing in a certain place, his face turned away from his own house, a book in his hand, and a great burden on his back." I looked, and I saw him open the book and read in it; and as he read, he wept and shook; and at last, unable to hold it in any longer, he broke out in a miserable cry: "What shall I do?"
[Note: the den is Bedford jail, where Bunyan wrote this book during the twelve years he spent in prison for preaching without a licence.]
In this condition he went home, and held himself in as long as he could, so that his wife and children would not see how distressed he was. But he could not stay silent for long, because his trouble kept growing. So at last he opened his mind to his wife and children, and began to talk to them like this. "My dear wife," he said, "and you, my own children — I am a ruined man, because of a burden that lies heavy on me. And more: I have it on certain word that this city of ours is going to be burned with fire out of heaven. In that terrible overthrow I myself, and you, my wife, and you, my sweet children, will all come to a wretched end — unless some way of escape can be found, which as yet I cannot see."
At this his family were badly shaken — not because they believed a word of what he had told them, but because they thought some kind of madness had got into his head. So, since it was getting on towards night and they hoped a night's sleep might settle his brain, they hurried him off to bed. But the night was as bad for him as the day had been, and instead of sleeping he spent it sighing and weeping. When morning came, they wanted to know how he was. Worse, he told them; and he set about talking to them again — but by now they were starting to harden against him. They decided to drive his madness out of him by being rough and short with him. Sometimes they laughed at him, sometimes they told him off, and sometimes they simply took no notice of him at all. So he began to go off to his room by himself, to pray for them and pity them, and to grieve over his own misery. He also took to walking alone in the fields, sometimes reading and sometimes praying; and he spent his days that way for some time.
Now I saw one day, as he was walking in the fields, that he was reading in his book as he usually did, and in great distress of mind; and as he read he burst out, as he had before, crying: "What shall I do to be saved?"
I saw too that he looked this way and that, as if he meant to run — and yet he stood still, because, as far as I could see, he could not tell which way to go. Then I looked, and I saw a man named Evangelist coming towards him, who asked, "Why are you crying out?"
He answered: Sir, I can see from the book in my hand that I am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgment; and I find that I am not willing to do the first, nor able to face the second.
Then Evangelist said: Why not willing to die, when this life comes with so many troubles in it?
The man answered: Because I am afraid that this burden on my back will sink me lower than the grave, and I shall fall into Tophet, the fire-pit itself. And Sir, if I am not fit to go to prison, then I am certainly not fit to go to judgment, and from there to execution. Thinking about all this is what makes me cry out.
Then Evangelist said: If that is your condition, why are you standing still?
He answered: Because I do not know where to go.
Then Evangelist gave him a roll of parchment, and written inside it was: "Flee from the wrath to come."
So the man read it, and looking very closely at Evangelist, said: Where must I flee to?
Then Evangelist pointed with his finger across a very wide field and said: Do you see that little gate over there?
The man said: No.
Then the other said: Do you see that shining light?
He said: I think I do.
Then Evangelist said: Keep that light in your eye and go straight towards it, and you will see the gate; and when you knock at it, you will be told what you are to do.
So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. He had not got far from his own door when his wife and children saw him going and began calling after him to come back. But the man put his fingers in his ears and ran on, crying, "Life! Life! Eternal life!" He never looked behind him, but fled towards the middle of the plain.
The neighbours came out too, to watch him run; and as he ran, some jeered, some threatened, and some shouted after him to come back. Among these last were two who were determined to fetch him back by force. One of them was called Obstinate, and the other Pliable. By this time the man had got a good distance ahead of them, but they were set on chasing him all the same — and they did, and before long they caught up with him.
Then the man said: Neighbours, why have you come?
They said: To persuade you to come back with us.
But he said: That is out of the question. You live in the City of Destruction — the place where I was born too. I can see that it is so. And dying there, sooner or later, you will sink lower than the grave, into a place that burns with fire and brimstone. Be sensible, good neighbours, and come along with me.
What, said Obstinate, and leave our friends and our comforts behind us?
Yes, said Christian — for that was his name — because everything "that you would leave behind" is not worth comparing with the smallest part of what I am going to find. And if you will come along with me, and hold to it, you will fare as well as I do; because where I am going there is enough and to spare. Come on, and put my words to the test.
Obstinate. What are these things you are after, that you would leave the whole world to find them?
Christian. I am after "an inheritance that cannot spoil or be spoiled or fade away." It is kept safe in heaven, to be handed over at the appointed time to those who look for it in earnest. Read it for yourself, if you like, in my book.
Obstinate. Nonsense, said Obstinate. Away with your book. Are you coming back with us or not?
Christian. Not I, said the other, because I have put my hand to the plough.
Obstinate. Come on, then, neighbour Pliable, let us turn round and go home without him. There is a whole tribe of these crackbrained fools who, once they get a notion by the end of it, think themselves wiser than seven men who can give you a reason.
Pliable. Don't be so hard on him, said Pliable. If what the good man Christian says is true, then the things he is after are better than ours. My heart rather inclines to go with my neighbour.
Obstinate. What, more fools yet? Take my advice and come back. Who knows where a man with a fever in his head will lead you? Go back, go back, and be sensible.
Christian. No — come with your neighbour Pliable. There really are such things to be had as I told you of, and far greater glories besides. If you will not believe me, read here in this book; and as for whether what is written in it is true, look — every word of it is guaranteed by the blood of the one who made it.
Pliable. Well, neighbour Obstinate, said Pliable, I am coming to a decision. I mean to go along with this good man and throw in my lot with him. But, my good companion, do you know the way to this place you want so much?
Christian. I have been directed by a man named Evangelist to hurry to a little gate that lies ahead of us, where we will be given instructions about the road.
Pliable. Come on, then, good neighbour, let us be going.
So the two of them went off together.
Obstinate. And I am going back where I came from, said Obstinate. I will be no companion to such deluded, fanciful fellows.
Now I saw in my dream that when Obstinate had gone back, Christian and Pliable went on across the plain, talking; and this is how their conversation began.
Christian. Come, neighbour Pliable, how are you? I am glad you were persuaded to come with me. If Obstinate himself had felt what I have felt of the power and the terror of what is still unseen, he would not have turned his back on us so lightly.
Pliable. Come, neighbour Christian, since there is nobody here but the two of us, tell me more. What are these things we are going to, and how are they to be enjoyed?
Christian. I can picture them in my mind better than I can speak them with my tongue. But since you want to know, I will read about them out of my book.
Pliable. And do you really think the words of your book are certainly true?
Christian. Yes, truly — because it was made by one who cannot lie.
Pliable. Well said. What things are they?
Christian. There is a kingdom without end to live in, and everlasting life to be given us, so that we may live in that kingdom forever.
Pliable. Well said. And what else?
Christian. There are crowns of glory to be given us, and clothes that will make us shine like the sun in the sky.
Pliable. That sounds very fine. And what else?
Christian. There will be no more crying, and no more sorrow; because the one who owns the place will wipe every tear from our eyes.
Pliable. And what company will we have there?
Christian. There we will be with seraphim and cherubim — creatures so bright they will dazzle your eyes to look at them. There you will meet thousands upon thousands who have gone on ahead of us to that place. Not one of them will do you any harm; they are all loving and holy, every one of them walking in the sight of God and standing accepted in his presence forever. In a word: there we will see the elders with their golden crowns; there we will see the holy virgins with their golden harps; there we will see men who were cut to pieces by this world, burned in the fire, eaten by wild beasts, drowned in the sea, all for the love they had for the Lord of that place — and every one of them well, and dressed in immortality as if it were a coat.
Pliable. Just hearing it is enough to carry a man's heart away. But are these things really to be had? How are we to get a share in them?
Christian. The Lord, the Governor of that country, has set it down in this book; and the sum of it is that if we are truly willing to have it, he will give it to us free.
Pliable. Well, my good companion, I am glad to hear it. Come on, let us pick up the pace.
Christian. I cannot go as fast as I would like, because of this burden on my back.
Now I saw in my dream that, just as they had finished this talk, they came up to a very muddy bog in the middle of the plain; and being careless, they both fell suddenly into it. The name of the bog was Despond. So there they floundered for a while, plastered all over with the filth of it; and Christian, because of the burden on his back, began to sink.
Pliable. Then Pliable said: Well, neighbour Christian — where are you now?
Christian. Truly, said Christian, I do not know.
Pliable. At that Pliable began to take offence, and said angrily to his companion: Is this the happiness you have been telling me about all this while? If we come off this badly at the very start, what can we expect between here and the end of the journey? If I get out of this alive, you can have your fine country to yourself. And with that he gave a couple of desperate heaves and got out of the mud on the side of the bog nearest his own house — and off he went, and Christian never saw him again.
So Christian was left floundering in the Slough of Despond alone. Still he kept struggling towards the side of the bog furthest from his own house and nearest the gate; and he reached it, but he could not climb out, because of the burden on his back. But I saw in my dream that a man came to him, whose name was Help, and asked him what he was doing there.
Christian. Sir, said Christian, I was told to come this way by a man called Evangelist, who also directed me to that gate over there, so that I might escape the wrath to come. And as I was going towards it, I fell in here.
Help. But why did you not look for the steps?
Christian. Fear was after me so hard that I ran the nearest way, and fell in.
Help. Then he said: Give me your hand. So Christian gave him his hand, and he pulled him out, and set him on solid ground, and told him to go on his way.
Then I went over to the man who had pulled him out and said: Sir — since the road from the City of Destruction to that gate runs across this place, why has this patch never been repaired, so that poor travellers might get across more safely?
And he said to me: This muddy bog is the kind of place that cannot be repaired. It is the low ground into which all the scum and filth that comes with the conviction of sin drains continually, and that is why it is called the Slough of Despond. For as often as a sinner wakes up to the state he is in, there rise up in him a great many fears and doubts and discouraging thoughts, and all of them run together and settle here. That is the reason this ground is so bad.
It is not the King's wish that the place should stay this bad. His workmen, following the instructions of his Majesty's surveyors, have been at work on this patch of ground for more than sixteen hundred years now, to see whether it could be mended. To my own knowledge, said he, there have been at least twenty thousand cartloads swallowed up here — yes, and millions of sound and healthy instructions besides, brought in every season from every corner of the King's territory. And those who know say they are the best material there is for making good ground of the place, if it could be made good at all. But it is the Slough of Despond still, and it will still be the Slough of Despond when they have done everything they can.
It is true that the Lawgiver has had a set of good, solid stepping stones laid right across the middle of the bog. But at the times when the place is throwing up its filth worst — as it does when the weather is on the turn — the steps can hardly be seen; and when they can, men get dizzy in the head and put a foot down beside them, and then they go in properly, steps or no steps. But the ground is good once they have got in at the gate.
Now I saw in my dream that by this time Pliable had got home again, and his neighbours came round to see him. Some of them called him a wise man for turning back, and some called him a fool for risking himself with Christian at all; and others jeered at him for being a coward, saying, "Well, if I had once set out, I would not have been so feeble as to give up over a few difficulties." So Pliable sat there among them, sheepish. But eventually he got his confidence back, and then they all changed their tune, and started sneering at poor Christian behind his back.
And that is all there is to say about Pliable.
Now as Christian was walking along by himself, he caught sight of somebody a good way off, coming across the field towards him; and it happened that they met just where their paths crossed. The gentleman's name was Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, and he lived in the town of Carnal Policy — a very large town, and close to the one Christian had come from. This man, meeting Christian, had some idea who he was, because Christian's setting out from the City of Destruction had been much talked about, not only in the town where he lived but in a few other places as well, where it was becoming the talk of the town. So Master Worldly-Wiseman, having a fair guess about him from the labouring way he walked, and from his sighs and groans and the like, opened a conversation with him.
Worldly-Wiseman. Well now, my good fellow — where are you off to, loaded up like that?
Christian. Loaded up indeed, as heavily as any poor creature ever was, I think. And since you ask me where I am off to: I am going to that little gate ahead of me, sir, because there, so I am told, I shall be set on a road that will rid me of this heavy burden.
Worldly-Wiseman. Have you a wife and children?
Christian. Yes. But I am so weighed down with this burden that I cannot take the pleasure in them that I used to. It feels as though I had none.
Worldly-Wiseman. Will you listen to me, if I give you some advice?
Christian. If it is good advice, I will. I am badly in need of good advice.
Worldly-Wiseman. Then my advice is this: get rid of that burden as fast as you possibly can. You will never have any peace of mind until you do, and until you do you cannot enjoy any of the good things God has given you.
Christian. But that is exactly what I am after — to be rid of this heavy burden. Only I cannot get it off myself, and there is nobody in our part of the country who can lift it off my shoulders. That is why I am going this way, as I told you: so that I can be rid of my burden.
Worldly-Wiseman. And who told you to go this way to be rid of it?
Christian. A man who seemed to me a very great and honourable person. His name, as I recall, was Evangelist.
Worldly-Wiseman. Curse him for the advice! There is not a more dangerous or troublesome road in the world than the one he has pointed you down, as you will find out if you go on doing what he tells you. You have run into something already, I see — that is the mud of the Slough of Despond on you. And that bog is only the beginning of the sorrows that wait for people who keep on down that road. Listen to me; I am older than you. On the road you are taking you can expect exhaustion, pain, hunger, danger, nakedness, the sword, lions, dragons, darkness — and in a word, death, and heaven knows what else. All this is perfectly true; there is plenty of testimony to confirm it. So why should a man throw himself away so carelessly, just because he listened to a stranger?
Christian. Why, sir, this burden on my back is more terrible to me than everything you have just listed. In fact I hardly care what I meet on the road, so long as I also meet with deliverance from my burden.
Worldly-Wiseman. How did you come by the burden in the first place?
Christian. By reading this book in my hand.
Worldly-Wiseman. I thought as much. The same thing has happened to you as happens to other weak men who go meddling with matters too far above them, and fall suddenly into just this sort of derangement. And that derangement does not only unman a man, as I can see it has unmanned you — it drives him off on desperate ventures to get hold of he knows not what.
Christian. I know exactly what I want to get hold of. Relief from this heavy burden.
Worldly-Wiseman. But why look for relief along this road, with so many dangers waiting on it? — especially when, if you would only be patient and hear me out, I could direct you to exactly what you want without any of the dangers you are running into this way. And the remedy is close at hand. I will add this, too: instead of those dangers you will meet with a great deal of safety, and friendship, and contentment.
Christian. Please, sir, let me in on this secret.
Worldly-Wiseman. Well then. In that village over there — the village is called Morality — there lives a gentleman named Legality: a very shrewd man, and one with an excellent reputation, who has the skill to get burdens like yours off men's shoulders. To my own knowledge he has done a great deal of good that way. And what is more, he also has the skill to cure people whose wits have gone a little astray under the weight of their burdens. You may go to him, as I say, and be helped at once. His house is not quite a mile from here; and if he should not be at home himself, he has a fine young son named Civility who can do the job, to be honest, quite as well as the old gentleman. There, I tell you, you may be relieved of your burden. And if you would rather not go back to your old house — as indeed I would not advise you to — you can send for your wife and children to join you in this village. There are houses standing empty there now, and you could have one of them at a reasonable rent. Food is cheap there too, and good. And what will make your life happier still is that you will be living among honest neighbours, respectable and well thought of.
Now Christian was brought up short for a moment; but before long he decided that if what this gentleman had said was true, the wisest thing he could do was take his advice. So he spoke again.
Christian. Sir, which is my road to this honest man's house?
Worldly-Wiseman. Do you see that hill over there?
Christian. Yes, very clearly.
Worldly-Wiseman. You must go past that hill, and the first house you come to is his.
So Christian turned off his road to go to Mr. Legality's house for help. But when he had got close up to the hill, it seemed so high, and the side of it nearest the road hung out over him so far, that Christian was afraid to go any further in case the hill should come down on his head. So he stood still, and had no idea what to do. And his burden now felt heavier to him than it had while he was on his proper road. There were flashes of fire coming out of the hill, too, that made Christian afraid he would be burned. So he stood there sweating and shaking with fear, and he began to be sorry that he had ever taken Mr. Worldly-Wiseman's advice.
And then he saw Evangelist coming to meet him — and at the sight of him he began to go red with shame. Evangelist came nearer and nearer; and coming up to him, he looked at him with a hard and terrible expression, and began to reason with him.
Evangelist. What are you doing here, Christian?
At these words Christian had no idea what to answer, and for the moment stood there without a word. Then Evangelist went on: Are you not the man I found crying outside the walls of the City of Destruction?
Christian. Yes, dear sir, I am the man.
Evangelist. Did I not point you the way to the little gate?
Christian. Yes, dear sir, said Christian.
Evangelist. How is it, then, that you have turned aside so quickly? Because you are off the road now.
Christian. I met a gentleman as soon as I had got across the Slough of Despond, and he persuaded me that in the village ahead I could find a man who would take my burden off.
Evangelist. What sort of man was he?
Christian. He looked like a gentleman, and he talked to me at length, and in the end he got me to give in. So I came here. But when I saw this hill, and the way it hangs out over the road, I stopped short, in case it should fall on my head.
Evangelist. What did this gentleman say to you?
Christian. Why, he asked me where I was going, and I told him.
Evangelist. And what did he say then?
Christian. He asked me whether I had a family, and I told him. But, I said, I am so loaded down by this burden on my back that I cannot take pleasure in them as I used to.
Evangelist. And what did he say then?
Christian. He told me to get rid of my burden quickly. And I told him that relief was exactly what I was looking for — and that I was therefore going to that gate over there, to get further directions about how to reach the place where I could be delivered. So he said that he would show me a better way, a shorter one, without so many difficulties on it as the road you had set me in, sir; and that this way would bring me to a gentleman's house, a man with the skill to take these burdens off. So I believed him, and turned off that road onto this one, hoping I might be quickly relieved of my burden. But when I got to this place and saw how things really were, I stopped for fear of the danger, as I said — and now I do not know what to do.
Evangelist. Then Evangelist said: Stand still a moment, and let me show you the words of God.
So he stood there trembling. Then Evangelist said: "See that you do not refuse him who speaks. For if they did not escape who refused him that spoke on earth, much less shall we escape, if we turn away from him that speaks from heaven." And he said further: "Now the just shall live by faith; but if any man draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him."
And he applied the words like this: You are the man who is running headlong into this misery. You have begun to reject the counsel of the Most High, and to draw your foot back out of the way of peace — very nearly to the point of risking your own damnation.
Then Christian fell down at his feet like a dead man, crying, "I am finished — there is no hope for me!" At the sight of that, Evangelist caught him by the right hand and said, "Every kind of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven to men," and "Do not be faithless, but believing." Then Christian revived a little and stood up, still shaking, as he had at first, in front of Evangelist.
Then Evangelist went on: Pay close attention now to what I am going to tell you. I am going to show you who it was that fooled you, and who it was he sent you to.
The man who met you is one Worldly-Wiseman, and he is rightly named. Partly it is because he has a taste for nothing but the teaching of this world — which is why he always goes to church in the town of Morality — and partly because it is that teaching he likes best, since it is the one that best saves him from the cross. And because his temper is of that earthbound kind, he sets himself to head off my ways, right though they are.
Now there are three things in this man's advice that you must utterly detest.
First, that he turned you off the road. Second, that he worked to make the cross look hateful to you. And third, that he set your feet on the road that leads to the ministry of death.
First, you must detest his turning you off the road — and your own agreeing to it — because it means rejecting the counsel of God in favour of the counsel of a Worldly-Wiseman. The Lord says, "Strive to enter in at the narrow gate" — the gate I am sending you to; for "narrow is the gate that leads to life, and there are few that find it." It is from this little gate, and from the road to it, that this wicked man has turned you, and very nearly to your destruction. So hate him for turning you off the road, and hate yourself for listening to him.
Second, you must detest his working to make the cross look hateful to you; because you are to value the cross "above the treasures of Egypt." Besides, the King of glory has told you that whoever "will save his life shall lose it," and that "he who comes after me, and does not hate his father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, and his own life as well, cannot be my disciple." So when a man works to persuade you that a thing will be the death of you, when the Truth himself has said that without it you cannot have eternal life — that teaching you must detest.
Third, you must hate his setting your feet on the road that leads to the ministry of death. And for this, consider who it was he sent you to, and how completely unable that person was to deliver you from your burden.
The man you were sent to for relief, whose name is Legality, is the son of the slave woman who exists now, and who is in slavery along with her children; and in the hidden sense of the thing, she is this Mount Sinai that you have been afraid would fall on your head. Now if she and her children are slaves, how can you expect to be made free by them? So this Legality is not able to set you free from your burden. No man has ever yet been rid of his burden by him, and no man ever will be. You cannot be made right with God by the works of the law; by keeping the law's rules, no living man can get rid of his burden. Therefore Mr. Worldly-Wiseman is a stranger to the truth, and Mr. Legality is a fraud; and as for his son Civility, for all his simpering looks, he is nothing but a hypocrite and cannot help you. Believe me, there is nothing in all this racket you have heard from these stupid men but a scheme to cheat you out of your salvation by turning you off the road I had set you on.
After this, Evangelist called aloud to the heavens to confirm what he had said; and with that there came words and fire out of the mountain that poor Christian was standing under, which made the hair stand up on his body. The words were these: "As many as are of the works of the law are under the curse; for it is written, Cursed is everyone that does not continue in all the things which are written in the book of the law, to do them."
Now Christian expected nothing but death, and began to cry out miserably, cursing the hour when he ever met Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, and calling himself a thousand kinds of fool for listening to his advice. He was deeply ashamed, too, to think that this gentleman's arguments — which came from nowhere but human self-interest — should have had enough weight with him to make him abandon the right road. Then he turned to Evangelist again, and this is what he said.
Christian. Sir, what do you think? Is there hope? May I go back now, and go up to the gate? Am I going to be cast off for this, and sent back from there in disgrace? I am sorry I listened to that man's advice. But can my sin be forgiven?
Evangelist. Then Evangelist said to him: Your sin is very great, because by it you have done two wrong things — you have abandoned the good road in order to walk in forbidden paths. And yet the man at the gate will still receive you, because he has goodwill towards people. Only, said he, take care that you do not turn aside again, "in case you perish from the way, when his anger is kindled but a little."
Then Christian set himself to go back; and Evangelist, after he had kissed him, gave him one smile and wished him godspeed. So he hurried on, and did not speak to anybody on the road; nor, if anyone asked him a question, would he give them so much as an answer. He walked like a man who was treading the whole way on forbidden ground, and who could not think himself safe by any means until he had got back onto the road he had left to follow Mr. Worldly-Wiseman's advice.
So in the course of time Christian came up to the gate. And over the gate was written: "Knock, and it shall be opened to you."
So he knocked, more than once or twice, saying:
May I come in? Will the one inside open to sorry me, though I have been a rebel with no claim on him at all? Then I will sing his praise for ever after.
At last a solemn person came to the gate, whose name was Goodwill, and asked who was there, and where he had come from, and what he wanted.
Christian. Here is a poor burdened sinner. I have come from the City of Destruction, but I am going to Mount Zion, so that I may be delivered from the wrath to come. And since I am told that the road there runs through this gate, I would like to know, sir, whether you are willing to let me in.
Goodwill. I am willing with all my heart, he said — and with that he opened the gate.
But as Christian was stepping through, the other man gave him a sharp pull. Christian said: What was that for? And the other told him: a little way off from this gate there stands a strong castle, and Beelzebub is its captain. From there, he and the ones with him shoot arrows at people coming up to this gate, in the hope that they may die before they can get in.
Then Christian said: I am glad and I am shaking, both at once.
So when he was inside, the man at the gate asked him who had directed him there.
Christian. Evangelist told me to come here and knock, which I did; and he said that you, sir, would tell me what I had to do.
Goodwill. An open door is set in front of you, and no one can shut it.
Christian. Now I am beginning to get some good out of the risks I have run.
Goodwill. But how is it that you came alone?
Christian. Because none of my neighbours saw the danger they were in, the way I saw mine.
Goodwill. Did any of them know you were coming?
Christian. Yes. My wife and children saw me at the start, and called after me to turn back; and some of my neighbours stood shouting and calling after me to come back too. But I put my fingers in my ears, and came on my way.
Goodwill. But did none of them follow you, to persuade you to go back?
Christian. Yes — both Obstinate and Pliable. But when they saw they could not get anywhere with me, Obstinate went back cursing, and Pliable came a little way with me.
Goodwill. But why did he not come the whole way?
Christian. We did come along together, until we reached the Slough of Despond, which we both suddenly fell into. And then my neighbour Pliable lost heart and would not risk going any further. So he got out again on the side nearest his own house, and told me I could have the fine country to myself for all he cared. Off he went his way and I came mine — he after Obstinate, and I to this gate.
Goodwill. Then Goodwill said: The poor man! Does he think so little of the glory of heaven that he does not reckon it worth the risk of a few difficulties to get it?
Christian. Truly, said Christian, I have told you the truth about Pliable; and if I told you the whole truth about myself, it would turn out there is nothing to choose between us. It is true he went back to his own house — but I turned aside onto the road of death, talked into it by the worldly arguments of a certain Mr. Worldly-Wiseman.
Goodwill. Oh — did he get hold of you? What, and he would have had you go looking for relief from Mr. Legality! The pair of them are a complete fraud. But did you take his advice?
Christian. Yes, as far as I dared. I went off to find Mr. Legality, until I thought the mountain that stands beside his house was going to come down on my head — and there I had to stop.
Goodwill. That mountain has been the death of many, and it will be the death of many more. You did well to escape being smashed to pieces by it.
Christian. Truly, I do not know what would have become of me there if Evangelist had not happened to meet me again, while I was standing brooding in the depths of my misery. It was God's mercy that he came to me a second time; otherwise I should never have got here at all. And now here I am, such as I am — fitter, really, to have died under that mountain than to be standing here talking to my lord. But what a kindness it is to me, that even so I am let in.
Goodwill. We turn nobody away, whatever they have done before they get here. They are "by no means cast out." So, good Christian, come a little way with me and I will teach you about the road you have to take. Look ahead of you. Do you see this narrow road? That is the way you must go. It was laid out by the patriarchs and the prophets, by Christ and by his apostles, and it is as straight as a ruler can make it. That is the road you must go.
Christian. But, said Christian, are there no turnings or bends where a stranger might lose his way?
Goodwill. Yes, there are many roads that join onto this one, and they are crooked and wide. This is how you can tell the right from the wrong: only the right one is straight and narrow.
Then I saw in my dream that Christian asked him further whether he could not help him off with the burden on his back — because he still had not been rid of it, and there was no way he could get it off without help.
Goodwill told him: as for your burden, be content to carry it until you come to the place of deliverance; for there it will fall off your back by itself.
Then Christian began to tighten his belt and get himself ready for the road. So the other told him that when he had gone some distance on from the gate, he would come to the house of the Interpreter; and that he should knock at the door there, and the Interpreter would show him excellent things. Then Christian said goodbye to his friend, and his friend once more wished him godspeed.
Then he went on until he came to the house of the Interpreter, where he knocked over and over. At last somebody came to the door and asked who was there.
Christian. Sir, here is a traveller, who was told by a friend of the master of this house to call in here for his own good. I would like to speak with the master of the house.
So he called the master of the house, who after a little while came to Christian and asked him what he wanted.
Christian. Sir, said Christian, I am a man who has come from the City of Destruction, and I am going to Mount Zion. I was told by the man who stands at the gate at the head of this road that if I called here you would show me excellent things — things that would help me on my journey.
Interpreter. Then the Interpreter said: Come in. I will show you what will do you good.
So he told his servant to light a candle, and told Christian to follow him. He took him into a private room and told his servant to open a door; and when he had done it, Christian saw hanging on the wall the picture of a very solemn person. This was how it looked. Its eyes were lifted up to heaven, it had the best of books in its hand, the law of truth was written on its lips, and the world was behind its back. It stood as though it were pleading with people, and a crown of gold hung over its head.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
Interpreter. The man in this picture is one in a thousand. He can father children, go through the pains of labour with them, and nurse them himself once they are born. As for seeing him with his eyes lifted to heaven, the best of books in his hand, and the law of truth written on his lips — that is to show you that his work is to know dark and difficult things and open them up for sinners; which is why you also see him standing as though he were pleading with people. And as for seeing the world thrown down behind him and a crown hanging over his head, that is to show you that because he thinks nothing of the things that are here and now, out of love for his Master's service, he is certain to have glory for his reward in the world that comes next.
Now, said the Interpreter, I have shown you this picture first because the man in it is the only man the Lord of the place you are going to has authorized to be your guide in all the hard places you may meet on the road. So take good notice of what I have shown you, and keep firmly in mind what you have seen — in case on your journey you run into people who claim to be leading you right, when their road goes down to death.
Then he took him by the hand and led him into a very large sitting room that was full of dust, because it had never been swept. After they had looked at it for a while, the Interpreter called for a man to sweep it. And when the man began to sweep, the dust flew about so thickly that Christian was nearly choked by it. Then the Interpreter said to a young woman standing by: Fetch the water and sprinkle the room. And when she had done it, the room was swept and cleaned easily and well.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
Interpreter. The Interpreter answered: This room is the heart of a man who has never been made holy by the sweet grace of the Gospel. The dust is his original sin and the corruption inside him, which has spoiled the whole man. The one who started sweeping is the Law; and the one who brought the water and sprinkled it is the Gospel.
Now, as for what you saw — that as soon as the first began to sweep, the dust flew about so much that he could not get the room clean, and you were nearly choked by it — that is to show you that the Law, instead of cleaning sin out of the heart by its own working, actually stirs sin up, gives it strength and makes it grow in the soul, at the very moment it exposes sin and forbids it. Because the Law does not give the power to master it.
And again, as you saw the young woman sprinkle the room with water, after which it was cleaned easily and well — that is to show you that when the Gospel comes into the heart with its sweet and precious influence, then, I say, just as you saw her lay the dust by sprinkling the floor with water, so is sin beaten and mastered, and the soul made clean through faith in the Gospel, and so made fit for the King of glory to live in.
I saw further, in my dream, that the Interpreter took him by the hand and brought him into a little room where two small children were sitting, each in his own chair. The elder was called Passion, and the other Patience. Passion seemed very dissatisfied, but Patience was perfectly calm. So Christian asked what the reason was for Passion's dissatisfaction. The Interpreter answered: The one who looks after them wants him to wait for his best things until the beginning of next year — but he wants everything now. Patience, on the other hand, is willing to wait.
Then I saw somebody come to Passion and bring him a bag of treasure, and pour it out at his feet; and he picked it up and gloated over it, and laughed Patience to scorn into the bargain. But I watched only a little while, and he had squandered the lot, and had nothing left but rags.
Christian. Then Christian said to the Interpreter: Explain this to me more fully.
Interpreter. So he said: These two boys stand for something. Passion stands for the people of this world, and Patience for the people of the world that is coming. Because, as you see here, Passion wants everything now, this year — that is to say, in this world. So it is with the people of this world: they must have all their good things now, and cannot wait until next year, that is, until the next world, for what is coming to them. The proverb "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" carries more weight with them than everything God has said about the good of the world to come. But as you saw that Passion very quickly squandered it all away and had nothing left but rags, so it will be with all such people at the end of this world.
Christian. Then Christian said: Now I see that Patience has the better wisdom, and for a number of reasons. First, because he waits for the best things. Second, because he will still have his glory when the other has nothing but rags.
Interpreter. No — you may add another. The glory of the next world will never wear out, but these things are gone in a moment. So Passion had far less reason to laugh at Patience for having his good things first than Patience will have to laugh at Passion for having his best things last. Because first has to give way to last, since last must still have its turn coming; but last gives way to nothing, because there is nothing after it to follow on. So the man who gets his share first is bound to have a time when he spends it; but the man who gets his share last has it lastingly. That is why it is said to the rich man in the story, "In your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus likewise received evil things; but now he is comforted, and you are tormented."
Christian. Then I see it is not best to be greedy for the things that are here now, but to wait for the things to come.
Interpreter. You are quite right. "For the things which are seen are temporary; but the things which are not seen are eternal." But even so — because present things and our bodily appetites are such close neighbours to one another, and because things to come and our bodily senses are such total strangers to one another — that is why the first two make friends so quickly, and why the distance between the second two keeps up.
Then I saw in my dream that the Interpreter took Christian by the hand and led him to a place where there was a fire burning against a wall, and somebody standing beside it constantly throwing a great deal of water on it to put it out; and yet the fire burned higher and hotter.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
The Interpreter answered: This fire is the work of grace going on in the heart. The one throwing water on it, to douse it and put it out, is the Devil. But as for why you see the fire burning higher and hotter in spite of him — you shall see the reason for that too.
So he took him round to the back of the wall, where he saw a man with a jar of oil in his hand, which he was also constantly pouring — but secretly — into the fire.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
The Interpreter answered: This is Christ, who continually keeps up, with the oil of his grace, the work already begun in the heart; and by that means, whatever the Devil can do, the souls of his people keep their grace still. And as for your seeing that the man stood behind the wall to keep the fire going, that is to teach you that it is hard for someone under temptation to see how this work of grace is being kept up in the soul.
I saw too that the Interpreter took him by the hand again and led him to a pleasant place where a magnificent palace had been built, beautiful to look at; and Christian was delighted at the sight of it. He also saw certain people walking about on the top of it, dressed all in gold.
Then Christian said: May we go in there?
Then the Interpreter took him and led him up towards the door of the palace; and there at the door stood a great crowd of men who clearly wanted to go in but did not dare. There was also a man sitting a little way off from the door, at a table, with a book and his inkpot in front of him, to take down the name of anyone who went in. And Christian saw that in the doorway there stood a number of men in armour to guard it, who were determined to do as much harm and damage as they could to anybody who tried to enter.
Now Christian was rather taken aback. At last, when every man had shrunk back for fear of the armed guards, Christian saw a man with a very determined look on his face come up to the man sitting there to write, and say, "Put my name down, sir." And when he had done it, Christian saw the man draw his sword, put a helmet on his head, and rush at the door and the armed men, who fell on him with murderous force. But the man was not discouraged in the least, and set about cutting and hacking most fiercely. So after he had taken many wounds and given many to those who were trying to keep him out, he cut his way straight through the lot of them and pushed forward into the palace — at which a delighted shout was heard from those inside, from the very people who were walking on the top of the palace, saying:
Come in, come in; eternal glory you shall win.
So he went in, and was dressed in the same clothes as they were. Then Christian smiled and said: I really think I know what this means.
Now, said Christian, let me go on from here.
No, wait, said the Interpreter, until I have shown you a little more; and after that you shall go on your way.
So he took him by the hand again and led him into a very dark room, where a man sat in an iron cage.
Now the man, to look at, seemed extremely sad. He sat with his eyes on the ground and his hands folded together, and he sighed as though his heart would break. Then Christian said: What does this mean? At which the Interpreter told him to talk to the man himself.
So Christian said to the man: What are you?
The man answered: I am what I once was not.
Christian. What were you once?
The man. I was once a fine and flourishing believer, so I looked in my own eyes and in other people's too. I was once, as I thought, well set for the Celestial City, and I used to feel real joy at the thought of getting there.
Christian. Well — but what are you now?
The man. I am now a man of despair, and I am shut up inside it as I am shut up in this iron cage. I cannot get out. Oh, now I cannot get out!
Christian. But how did you come to be in this state?
The man. I stopped keeping watch and staying sober. I gave my appetites their head. I sinned against the light of the Word and against the goodness of God. I have grieved the Spirit, and he is gone. I taunted the Devil, and he has come to me. I have provoked God to anger, and he has left me. I have hardened my own heart so far that I cannot repent.
Then Christian said to the Interpreter: But is there no hope for a man like this? Ask him, said the Interpreter. No, said Christian, please, sir — you ask him.
Interpreter. Then the Interpreter said: Is there no hope? Must you be kept in this iron cage of despair?
The man. No. None at all.
Interpreter. Why, the Son of the Blessed One is full of pity.
The man. I have crucified him all over again, for myself. I have despised his person. I have despised his righteousness. I have "counted his blood an unholy thing." I have "insulted the Spirit of grace." So I have shut myself out of every promise, and there is nothing left for me now but threats — terrible threats, terrifying threats of certain judgment and burning fury, which will devour me as an enemy.
Interpreter. And what did you bring yourself into this state for?
The man. For the appetites, the pleasures and the profits of this world, in the enjoyment of which I promised myself a great deal of delight at the time. But now every one of those same things bites me and gnaws me like a burning worm.
Interpreter. But can you not repent now, and turn back?
The man. God has refused me repentance. His Word gives me no encouragement to believe. He himself has shut me up in this iron cage, and all the men in the world could not let me out. Oh, eternity, eternity! How am I going to face the misery I must meet with in eternity?
Interpreter. Then the Interpreter said to Christian: Let this man's misery stay in your memory, and be a permanent warning to you.
Christian. Well, said Christian, this is terrifying. God help me to keep watch and stay sober, and to pray that I may keep clear of whatever brought this man to such misery. Sir, is it not time for me to go on my way now?
Interpreter. Wait until I have shown you one more thing, and then you shall go on your way.
So he took Christian by the hand again and led him into a bedroom where somebody was getting out of bed; and as he put his clothes on, he was shaking and trembling. Then Christian said: Why is this man trembling like that? The Interpreter told the man to give Christian the reason for it himself.
So he began, and said: Last night, while I was asleep, I dreamed — and the sky went utterly black, and there was thunder and lightning in the most frightening way, so that it threw me into an agony. Then I looked up in my dream and saw the clouds driving past at an extraordinary speed, and I heard a great blast of a trumpet, and I also saw a man sitting on a cloud, attended by the thousands of heaven. They were all in flames of fire, and the sky itself was burning.
Then I heard a voice saying, "Arise, you dead, and come to judgment." And with that the rocks split, the graves opened, and the dead inside them came out. Some of them were tremendously glad and looked upward; and some tried to hide themselves under the mountains.
Then I saw the man who sat on the cloud open the book and tell the world to come near. But because of a fierce flame that came out from in front of him, there was a good distance kept between him and them, as there is between the judge and the prisoners in the dock. And I heard it announced to those attending the man who sat on the cloud, "Gather together the weeds, the chaff and the stubble, and throw them into the burning lake." And with that, the bottomless pit opened, just about where I was standing, and out of its mouth came thick smoke and coals of fire, with hideous noises.
It was also said to the same people, "Gather my wheat into the barn." And with that I saw many of them snatched up and carried away into the clouds — but I was left behind. I tried to hide myself too, but I could not, because the man who sat on the cloud kept his eye on me the whole time. My sins came into my mind as well, and my conscience accused me from every side. And at that I woke up.
Christian. But what was it about the sight that frightened you so much?
The man. Why, I thought that the day of judgment had come, and that I was not ready for it. But this frightened me most: that the angels gathered up a number of people and left me behind — and that the pit of hell opened its mouth just where I was standing. My conscience tormented me too; and, as I thought, the Judge kept his eye on me the whole time, with anger showing in his face.
Then the Interpreter said to Christian: Have you thought about all these things?
Christian. Yes — and they leave me hoping and afraid at once.
Interpreter. Well, keep all of them in your mind, so that they may be like a spur in your side to drive you forward on the road you have to travel.
Then Christian began to tighten his belt and get himself ready for the journey. And the Interpreter said: May the Comforter be with you always, good Christian, to guide you on the road that leads to the City.
So Christian went on his way, saying:
Here I have seen things rare and worth the knowing, things pleasant, things to dread, things to keep me going steady in what I have set my hand to do. So let me think them over, and think them through, and understand what they were shown me for — and thank you, good Interpreter, once more.
Now I saw in my dream that the road Christian had to go up was fenced on both sides with a wall, and that wall was called Salvation. So burdened Christian ran up this road — but not without great difficulty, because of the load on his back.
He ran on like that until he came to a place where the ground rose a little; and on that rise stood a cross, and a little below it, at the bottom, a tomb. So I saw in my dream that just as Christian came level with the cross, his burden came loose from his shoulders and fell off his back, and began to roll, and went on rolling until it came to the mouth of the tomb, where it fell in; and I never saw it again.
Then Christian was glad and light, and said with a happy heart, "He has given me rest by his suffering, and life by his death." Then he stood still a while to look and to wonder, because it was a great surprise to him that the sight of the cross should relieve him of his burden like that. So he looked, and looked again, until the springs in his head sent the water running down his cheeks.
Now as he stood there looking and crying, three Shining Ones came to him and greeted him with "Peace be to you." The first said to him, "Your sins are forgiven you." The second stripped off his rags and dressed him "in a change of clothing." The third set a mark on his forehead and gave him a scroll with a seal on it, which he told him to look at as he ran, and to hand in at the Celestial Gate. Then they went on their way.
And Christian gave three leaps for joy, and went on singing:
This far I came, and all the way I bore my sin, and nothing eased the grief I wore till I came here. What kind of place is this! Must here be the beginning of my bliss? Must here the burden fall from off my back? Must here the cords that bound it to me crack? Blessed the cross, and blessed the tomb — but he who was put to shame there, blessed most, for me.
Then I saw in my dream that he went on like this until he came to a low place, where he saw three men a little off the road, fast asleep, with irons on their heels. One of them was called Simple, another Sloth, and the third Presumption.
Christian, seeing them lying there in that state, went over on the chance that he might wake them, and called out: You are like men asleep at the top of a mast, with the Dead Sea underneath you — a gulf with no bottom to it. So wake up and come away; and if you are willing, I will help you get those irons off. He also told them that if the one who "goes about like a roaring lion" came past, they would certainly end up between his teeth.
At that they looked at him and began to answer him, each in his own way. Simple said, "I don't see any danger." Sloth said, "Just a little more sleep." And Presumption said, "Every tub has to stand on its own bottom — what other answer do you expect me to give you?" And so they lay down to sleep again, and Christian went on his way.
Still, it troubled him to think that men in that much danger should think so little of the kindness of somebody who had freely offered to help them — waking them, warning them, and offering to get their irons off. And while he was still troubled about it, he caught sight of two men come tumbling over the wall on the left-hand side of the narrow road, and they came up to him at a good pace. One of them was called Formalist and the other Hypocrisy. So, as I say, they came up alongside him, and he got into conversation with them.
Christian. Gentlemen, where have you come from, and where are you going?
Formalist and Hypocrisy. We were born in the land of Vainglory, and we are going to Mount Zion for the credit of it.
Christian. Why did you not come in at the gate that stands at the beginning of the road? Do you not know it is written that anyone who does not come in by the door, "but climbs up some other way, is a thief and a robber"?
Formalist and Hypocrisy. They said that going round to the gate to get in was reckoned much too long a way about by everybody in their country; and that their usual practice was therefore to take a short cut and climb over the wall, as they had just done.
Christian. But will it not be counted an offence against the Lord of the city we are all bound for, to break his declared will like that?
Formalist and Hypocrisy. They told him that as far as that went, he need not trouble his head about it; because what they did they did by custom, and they could produce evidence, if it came to that, to prove the custom went back more than a thousand years.
Christian. But, said Christian, would your practice stand up in court?
Formalist and Hypocrisy. They told him that a custom of such long standing — over a thousand years — would surely be allowed as legal now by any impartial judge. And besides, they said, if we get onto the road, what does it matter how we got on? If we are on it, we are on it. You are on the road, and came in at the gate as far as we can see; and we are on the road too, and came tumbling over the wall. So how is your position any better than ours?
Christian. I walk by my Master's rule; you walk by the crude workings of your own imaginations. You are already counted thieves by the Lord of this road, so I doubt you will be found honest men at the end of it. You came in by yourselves, without his direction; and you will go out by yourselves, without his mercy.
To this they gave him very little answer; they only told him to look to himself. Then I saw that they all went on, each man his own way, without much conversation between them — except that these two men told Christian that as for laws and observances, they had no doubt they kept them quite as conscientiously as he did. So, they said, we cannot see any difference between you and us, except for that coat on your back, which we suppose some of your neighbours gave you to cover up the shame of being naked.
Christian. Laws and observances will not save you, since you did not come in by the door. And as for this coat on my back, it was given me by the Lord of the place I am going to — and given me, as you say, to cover my nakedness. I take it as a sign of his kindness to me, because I had nothing but rags before. And besides, I comfort myself with this as I go along: surely, I think, when I come to the gate of the city, the Lord of it will recognize me as one of his own, since I have his coat on my back — a coat he gave me the day he stripped me of my rags. What is more, I have a mark on my forehead, which perhaps you have not noticed, put there by one of my Lord's closest companions on the day my burden fell off my shoulders. And I will tell you something else: I was given a sealed scroll that day, to comfort me by reading it as I go along the road, and I was told to hand it in at the Celestial Gate as proof that I am certainly to be let in.
All of which, I suspect, you are without — and without because you did not come in at the gate.
To all this they gave him no answer at all; they only looked at each other and laughed. Then I saw that they all went on, except that Christian kept ahead, and had nobody to talk to but himself — sometimes with a sigh and sometimes cheerfully. He would also often read in the scroll that one of the Shining Ones had given him, and it refreshed him.
Then I watched them all go on until they came to the foot of the Hill Difficulty, at the bottom of which there was a spring. There were also two other roads in that same place, besides the one that came straight from the gate: one turned off to the left and the other to the right at the bottom of the hill. But the narrow road went straight up the hill, and the name of the climb up the hillside is Difficulty. Christian now went to the spring and drank from it to refresh himself, and then began to go up the hill, saying:
The hill is high, and still I want to climb; the difficulty will not put me off, because I see the road to life runs here. Come, take heart — let us neither faint nor fear. Better the right road, hard as it may be, than the wrong easy one that ends in misery.
The other two came to the foot of the hill as well. But when they saw how steep and high it was, and that there were two other roads to take — and supposing that these two roads might join up again with the one Christian was climbing, on the other side of the hill — they decided to go those ways instead. Now the name of one of those roads was Danger and the name of the other was Destruction. So one of them took the road called Danger, which led him into a great wood; and the other went straight up the road to Destruction, which led him into a wide field full of dark mountains, where he stumbled and fell, and never got up again.
Then I looked after Christian, to watch him go up the hill; and I saw him drop from running to walking, and from walking to scrambling on his hands and knees, because the slope was so steep. Now about halfway up the hill there was a pleasant shelter, built by the Lord of the hill for the refreshment of weary travellers. Christian reached it, and sat down there to rest. Then he pulled his scroll out of his coat and read in it for comfort; and he also began looking over again the coat that had been given him as he stood by the cross. And pleasing himself like this for a while, he at last drifted into a doze, and from that into a deep sleep, which kept him there until it was almost night; and while he slept, his scroll fell out of his hand.
Now while he was sleeping, somebody came to him and woke him, saying, "Go to the ant, you sluggard; look at how she goes about things, and be wise." And at that Christian jumped up and hurried off on his way, and went at a good pace until he came to the top of the hill.
Now when he had got to the top, two men came running to meet him at full speed. One was called Timorous and the other Mistrust. Christian said to them: Gentlemen, what is the matter? You are running the wrong way.
Timorous answered that they had been going to the City of Zion and had got up that difficult stretch; but, he said, the further we go the more danger we run into, so we turned round and are going back.
Yes, said Mistrust — because just ahead of us there are a couple of lions in the road. Whether they were asleep or awake we could not tell, but we could not see how, if we came within reach of them, they would fail to tear us to pieces on the spot.
Christian. Then Christian said: You are frightening me — but where am I to run to, to be safe? If I go back to my own country, which is set aside for fire and brimstone, I shall certainly die there. If I can get to the Celestial City, I am certain to be safe there. I have to take the risk. Going back is nothing but death; going forward is the fear of death, and everlasting life beyond it. I am going on.
So Mistrust and Timorous ran off down the hill, and Christian went on his way. But thinking again about what he had heard from the two men, he felt inside his coat for his scroll, so that he could read in it and take comfort — and he felt, and could not find it.
Then Christian was badly shaken and had no idea what to do; because he had lost the thing that used to relieve him, and the thing that was meant to be his pass into the Celestial City. So there he stood, thoroughly confused, not knowing what to do. At last it occurred to him that he had fallen asleep in the shelter on the hillside; and going down on his knees, he asked God's forgiveness for that foolish act, and then went back to look for his scroll.
But who could possibly describe the misery in Christian's heart all the way back! Sometimes he sighed, sometimes he cried, and over and over again he told himself off for being fool enough to fall asleep in a place that had been put up only for a little refreshment when he was tired. So back he went, searching carefully to this side and that the whole way, hoping he might find the scroll that had comforted him so many times on his journey.
He went on like that until he came in sight of the shelter where he had sat down and slept — and the sight of it only renewed his misery, by bringing the wrong he had done in sleeping freshly back into his mind. So he came on, lamenting his sinful sleep, and saying: What a wretched man I am! To sleep in the daytime! To sleep in the middle of a hard climb! To indulge myself so far as to use for the ease of my own body a rest that the Lord of the hill put up only for the relief of pilgrims' spirits!
How many steps I have taken for nothing! It is what happened to Israel for their sin: they were sent back again by the way of the Red Sea. And I am made to walk in sorrow over ground I could have walked over with delight, if it had not been for this sinful sleep. How far along the road I could have been by now! I am made to walk the same stretch three times over when I need only have walked it once. And now night is going to catch me, too, because the day is nearly gone. Oh, if only I had not slept!
Now by this time he had come back to the shelter, where he sat down for a while and wept. But at last, as Christian's luck would have it, looking sorrowfully down under the bench, he spotted his scroll; and he snatched it up, trembling and hurried, and put it inside his coat.
But who can say how glad this man was to have his scroll again! Because this scroll was his assurance of life, and of being accepted when he reached the harbour he was making for. So he tucked it inside his coat, thanked God for turning his eye to the place where it lay, and with joy and tears set off on his journey again.
But how nimbly he went up the rest of that hill now! And yet, before he had got to the top, the sun went down on Christian; and that made him remember all over again how pointless his sleeping had been, and he began to feel sorry for himself once more.
Oh, you sinful sleep! Because of you I am going to be caught by the dark on my journey. I have to walk without the sun; darkness will cover the path under my feet; and I shall have to listen to the noise of the dismal creatures — all because of my sinful sleep.
And now he remembered too the story Mistrust and Timorous had told him, and how frightened they had been by the sight of the lions. So Christian said to himself again: These animals hunt at night. And if they were to come across me in the dark, how would I get away from them? How would I escape being torn to pieces by them?
So he went on his way. But while he was still lamenting his unhappy mistake, he lifted up his eyes — and there in front of him was a very grand palace, whose name was Beautiful, standing right beside the road.
So I saw in my dream that he hurried forward, hoping he might be able to get a bed there. Now before he had gone far he came into a very narrow passage, about a couple of hundred yards short of the porter's lodge; and looking sharply ahead as he went, he spotted two lions in the road. Now, he thought, I see the dangers that drove Mistrust and Timorous back. (The lions were chained, but he could not see the chains.) Then he was afraid, and he thought of turning back after them himself, because it seemed to him there was nothing but death ahead.
But the porter at the lodge, whose name is Watchful, seeing that Christian had stopped as though he meant to go back, called out to him: Is your strength as small as that? Do not be afraid of the lions — they are chained, and they are put there to test faith where there is any, and to expose those who have none. Keep to the middle of the path, and no harm will come to you.
Then I saw that he went on, shaking with fear of the lions but keeping careful hold of the porter's instructions. He heard them roar, but they did him no harm. Then he clapped his hands, and went on until he came and stood in front of the gate where the porter was.
Then Christian said to the porter: Sir, what house is this? And may I stay here tonight?
The porter answered: This house was built by the Lord of the hill, and he built it for the relief and protection of pilgrims. And the porter also asked him where he was from, and where he was going.
Christian. I have come from the City of Destruction, and I am going to Mount Zion. But since the sun has now gone down, I would like to stay here tonight, if I may.
Porter. What is your name?
Christian. My name now is Christian, but at first my name was Graceless. I come of the line of Japheth, whom God will persuade to live in the tents of Shem.
Porter. But how does it happen that you come so late? The sun has set.
Christian. I would have been here sooner, except that — wretched man that I am — I fell asleep in the shelter that stands on the hillside. And even so I would have been here a good deal sooner, except that while I slept I lost my evidence, and came to the brow of the hill without it; and then, feeling for it and not finding it, I was forced to go back, sick at heart, to the place where I had slept my sleep. I found it there, and here I am.
Porter. Well, I will call out one of the young women of this house, who will, if she likes what you say, bring you in to meet the rest of the household, according to the rules here.
So Watchful the porter rang a bell, and at the sound of it there came out of the door of the house a serious and beautiful young woman named Discretion, who asked why she had been called.
The porter answered: This man is on a journey from the City of Destruction to Mount Zion; but being tired, and caught by the dark, he asked me if he might stay here tonight. So I told him I would call you, and that after you had talked with him you could do as you thought best, according to the rule of the house.
Then she asked him where he was from, and where he was going, and he told her. She also asked him how he had got onto the road, and he told her. Then she asked him what he had seen and met with along the way, and he told her. And last of all she asked him his name; and he said: It is Christian — and I want all the more to stay here tonight because, from what I understand, this place was built by the Lord of the hill for the relief and protection of pilgrims.
So she smiled, but there were tears in her eyes; and after a short pause she said: I will call out two or three more of the household. So she ran to the door and called out Prudence, Piety and Charity; and after a little more conversation with him, they brought him in to the household. Many of them met him on the doorstep, saying, "Come in, you who are blessed of the Lord" — this house was built by the Lord of the hill on purpose to take in pilgrims like you. Then he bowed his head and followed them into the house.
So when he had come in and sat down, they gave him something to drink, and agreed among themselves that until supper was ready some of them should have a proper conversation with Christian, to make the best use of the time. They appointed Piety, Prudence and Charity to talk with him, and this is how they began.
Piety. Come, good Christian, since we have been kind enough to take you into our house tonight, let us talk with you about everything that has happened to you on your pilgrimage — perhaps we may be the better for it ourselves.
Christian. Very willingly; and I am glad you are so well disposed.
Piety. What first moved you to take up a pilgrim's life?
Christian. I was driven out of my own country by a terrible sound in my ears — that unavoidable destruction was waiting for me if I stayed in the place where I was.
Piety. But how did it happen that you came out of your country this way?
Christian. It was as God would have it. When I was under the fear of destruction I did not know where to go; but as it happened a man came right up to me, while I stood there trembling and crying, whose name is Evangelist. He directed me to the little gate, which otherwise I should never have found, and so set me on the road that has brought me straight to this house.
Piety. But did you not come past the house of the Interpreter?
Christian. Yes, and I saw such things there that the memory of them will stay with me as long as I live — three of them especially: how Christ keeps up his work of grace in the heart in spite of Satan; how the man had sinned himself right out of any hope of God's mercy; and the dream of the man who thought in his sleep that the day of judgment had come.
Piety. Why — did you hear him tell his dream?
Christian. Yes, and a terrible one it was. I thought it made my heart ache to hear him telling it; and yet I am glad I heard it.
Piety. Was that all you saw at the house of the Interpreter?
Christian. No. He took me and showed me a magnificent palace, and the people inside it dressed in gold; and how a daring man came and cut his way through the armed men standing in the door to keep him out; and how he was called to come in and win eternal glory. I thought those things carried my heart away. I could have stayed at that good man's house a whole year, except that I knew I had further to go.
Piety. And what else did you see on the way?
Christian. See! Why, I went only a little further and I saw one — as I thought in my own mind — hanging bleeding on the tree. And the very sight of him made my burden fall off my back; because I was groaning under a very heavy burden, and then it dropped clean off me. It was a strange thing to me, because I had never seen anything like it before. And while I stood there looking up — for I could not stop looking — three Shining Ones came to me. One of them declared that my sins were forgiven; another stripped off my rags and gave me this embroidered coat that you can see; and the third set the mark you can see on my forehead, and gave me this sealed scroll. (And with that he pulled it out of his coat.)
Piety. But you saw more than that, did you not?
Christian. The things I have told you were the best of it. Still, I did see some other things. I saw three men — Simple, Sloth and Presumption — lying asleep a little off the road as I came, with irons on their heels; but do you think I could wake them? I also saw Formalist and Hypocrisy come tumbling over the wall, meaning to go to Zion, so they claimed; but they were soon lost, exactly as I told them they would be, though they would not believe it. But above all, I found it hard work getting up this hill, and just as hard getting past the lions' mouths. And truly, if it had not been for the good man, the porter who stands at the gate, I do not know but that after everything I might have turned back again. But now, thank God, I am here — and I thank you for taking me in.
Then Prudence thought it good to ask him a few questions, and asked him to answer them.
Prudence. Do you not sometimes think about the country you came from?
Christian. Yes — but with a great deal of shame and disgust. "Truly, if I had kept my mind on the country I came out of, I might have had the chance to go back; but as it is I want a better country, that is, a heavenly one."
Prudence. Do you still carry about with you some of the things you used to be caught up in back then?
Christian. Yes, but very much against my will — my inward and bodily thoughts above all, the ones that all my countrymen delighted in, and I along with them. But now every one of those things is a grief to me; and if I could have things my own way I would choose never to think about them again. And yet when I want to be doing what is best, what is worst is right there with me.
Prudence. Do you not find sometimes that those things seem beaten, though at other times they are your torment?
Christian. Yes, but only rarely. Still, they are golden hours to me, when it happens.
Prudence. Can you remember by what means you find your troubles beaten, at those times?
Christian. Yes. When I think of what I saw at the cross, that will do it. When I look at my embroidered coat, that will do it. When I look into the scroll I carry in my coat, that will do it. And when my thoughts grow warm about where I am going, that will do it.
Prudence. And what is it that makes you so eager to get to Mount Zion?
Christian. Why, there I hope to see alive the one who hung dead on the cross; and there I hope to be rid of all those things that are a torment to me even now. There, they say, there is no death; and there I shall live with exactly the company I like best. Because, to tell you the truth, I love him, since it was by him I was relieved of my burden; and I am sick of my own inward sickness. I would dearly like to be where I shall die no more, and with the company that goes on crying, "Holy, holy, holy."
Then Charity said to Christian: Have you a family? Are you a married man?
Christian. I have a wife and four small children.
Charity. And why did you not bring them along with you?
Christian. Then Christian wept, and said: Oh, how gladly I would have done it! But every one of them was dead set against my going on pilgrimage.
Charity. But you should have talked to them, and tried to show them the danger of staying behind.
Christian. So I did — and I told them too what God had shown me about the destruction of our city. "But I seemed to them like a man making a joke," and they did not believe me.
Charity. And did you pray that God would make your advice do them good?
Christian. Yes, and with a great deal of feeling; because you must understand that my wife and my poor children were very dear to me.
Charity. But did you tell them about your own misery, and your fear of destruction? Because I suppose the destruction was plain enough to you.
Christian. Yes, over and over and over. They could see my fears in my face too, and in my tears, and in the way I shook under the weight of the judgment hanging over our heads. But none of it was enough to persuade them to come with me.
Charity. But what could they say for themselves, as to why they would not come?
Christian. Why — my wife was afraid of losing this world, and my children were given up to the silly pleasures of being young. So between one thing and another, they left me to go wandering off like this on my own.
Charity. But did you not undercut everything you said to persuade them, by the emptiness of your own life?
Christian. I certainly cannot recommend my life; I am well aware of a great many failings in it. And I know too that a man's own conduct can quickly knock down what he is labouring by argument and persuasion to fix in other people's minds for their good. Still, I can say this much: I was very careful not to give them any excuse, by anything unfitting in my behaviour, to be put off going on pilgrimage. In fact it was that very thing they used to hold against me — that I was too strict, and that for their sakes I denied myself things they could see no harm in at all. No, I think I may say that if what they saw in me held them back, it was how careful I was about sinning against God, or doing any wrong to my neighbour.
Charity. Indeed, Cain hated his brother "because his own works were evil and his brother's were righteous"; and if your wife and children have been offended with you for this, they show by that they are set against what is good, and "you have delivered your own soul from their blood."
Now I saw in my dream that they sat there talking like this until supper was ready. So when it was prepared, they sat down to eat. Now the table was laid "with rich food, and with well-refined wine"; and all their talk at the table was about the Lord of the hill — what he had done, and why he had done what he did, and why he had built this house.
And from what they said, I gathered that he had been a great warrior, and had fought and killed "the one who had the power of death," but not without great danger to himself, which made me love him the more.
Because, as they said, and as I believe it too (said Christian), he did it at the cost of a great deal of blood. But what put the glory of grace into everything he did was that he did it out of pure love for his country. And besides, there were some of the household who said they had been and spoken with him since he died on the cross; and they testified they had it from his own lips that he is such a lover of poor pilgrims as you would not find from one end of the earth to the other.
They gave an example, too, of what they were saying: that he had stripped himself of his own glory so that he could do this for the poor; and that they had heard him say and insist "that he would not live on the mountain of Zion alone." They said, further, that he had made many pilgrims into princes, though they were born beggars by nature and had come off the rubbish heap.
So they talked together until late at night; and after they had committed themselves to their Lord for protection, they went to their rest. They put the Pilgrim in a large upstairs room whose window opened towards the sunrise; and the name of that room was Peace, where he slept until daybreak. Then he woke, and sang:
Where am I now? Is this the love and care of Jesus for the men that pilgrims are? To be provided for like this — forgiven — and lodged already next door to heaven!
So in the morning they all got up; and after some more conversation they told him he was not to leave until they had shown him the treasures of the place.
First they took him into the study, where they showed him records of the greatest antiquity. In these, as I remember my dream, they showed him first the pedigree of the Lord of the hill: that he was the Son of the Ancient of Days, and came by that eternal descent. Here too were recorded more fully the things he had done, and the names of many hundreds he had taken into his service, and how he had settled them in dwellings that could not be pulled down either by length of years or by the wearing out of nature.
Then they read him some of the worthy deeds that his servants had done: how they had "conquered kingdoms, worked righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, grew brave in battle, and put foreign armies to flight."
Then they read again in another part of the records of the house, where it was shown how willing their Lord was to receive into his favour anybody at all — anybody — even those who in times past had offered great insults to him and to what he was doing. Here too were a number of other accounts of famous things, all of which Christian was given sight of, both ancient and modern, along with prophecies and predictions of things that are certain to come about, to the terror and astonishment of enemies and to the comfort and consolation of pilgrims.
The next day they took him into the armoury, where they showed him every kind of equipment their Lord had provided for pilgrims: sword, shield, helmet, breastplate, the weapon of all-prayer, and shoes that would never wear out. And there was enough of it here to equip as many men for their Lord's service as there are stars in the sky for number.
They also showed him some of the instruments with which some of his servants had done extraordinary things. They showed him Moses' staff; the hammer and nail with which Jael killed Sisera; the pitchers, trumpets and lamps too, with which Gideon put the armies of Midian to flight. Then they showed him the ox-goad with which Shamgar killed six hundred men. They showed him as well the jawbone with which Samson did such mighty deeds. They showed him, further, the sling and the stone with which David killed Goliath of Gath; and also the sword with which their Lord will kill the Man of Sin, on the day he rises up to take his prey. And they showed him a great many other excellent things besides, which delighted Christian very much.
When this was done, they went to their rest again.
Then I saw in my dream that the next morning he got up to go on; but they asked him to stay another day as well. And then, they said, if the day is clear we will show you the Delectable Mountains — which, they said, would add still further to his comfort, because they were nearer the harbour he was making for than the place where he was now. So he agreed, and stayed.
When the morning came they took him to the top of the house and told him to look south. So he did — and there, a great way off, he saw a most beautiful mountainous country, made lovely with woods and vineyards and fruit of every kind, and flowers too, with springs and fountains, all delightful to look at. Then he asked the name of the country. They said it was Immanuel's Land; and it is common ground, they said, just as this hill is, to all pilgrims. And when you get there, they said, from there you will be able to see as far as the gate of the Celestial City, as the shepherds who live there will show you.
Now he thought about setting off, and they were willing that he should. But first, they said, let us go into the armoury again. So they did; and when they got there, they fitted him out from head to foot in tested armour, in case he should run into any attacks on the road. So being equipped like this, he walked out with his friends to the gate, and there he asked the porter whether he had seen any pilgrims go past.
The porter answered: Yes.
Christian. Please — did you know him? said he.
Porter. I asked his name, and he told me it was Faithful.
Christian. Oh, said Christian, I know him. He is from my own town, a close neighbour of mine; he comes from the place where I was born. How far ahead do you think he might be?
Porter. By this time he will have got below the hill.
Christian. Well, said Christian, good Porter, the Lord be with you, and add a great increase to all your blessings, for the kindness you have shown me.
Then he set off; but Discretion, Piety, Charity and Prudence would come with him down to the foot of the hill. So they went on together, going back over the things they had talked about before, until they came to the descent. Then Christian said: It was hard coming up, and as far as I can see it is dangerous going down.
Yes, said Prudence, so it is; because it is a hard business for a man to go down into the Valley of Humiliation, as you are doing now, and not slip somewhere along the way. That, they said, is why we have come out to see you down the hill.
So he began to go down, very carefully — and even so he slipped once or twice. Then I saw in my dream that when Christian had reached the bottom of the hill, these good companions gave him a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and a bunch of raisins; and then he went on his way.
But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian was in real trouble; because he had gone only a little way when he spotted a foul fiend coming across the field to meet him, whose name is Apollyon. Then Christian began to be afraid, and to turn over in his mind whether to go back or stand his ground. But then he considered that he had no armour for his back, and so he thought that turning his back might only give the fiend the greater advantage, and let him drive his darts in easily. So he decided to risk it and stand his ground. Because, he thought, even if I had nothing in view but saving my own life, standing would still be the best way.
So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to look at. He was covered in scales like a fish — and they are his pride. He had wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was like the mouth of a lion. When he had come up to Christian, he looked him over with contempt and began to question him.
Apollyon. Where have you come from, and where are you bound?
Christian. I have come from the City of Destruction, which is the home of everything evil, and I am going to the City of Zion.
Apollyon. By this I gather you are one of my subjects, because all that country is mine, and I am its prince and god. How is it, then, that you have run away from your king? If I did not hope you might do me more service yet, I would strike you to the ground now, with a single blow.
Christian. I was born in your territory, it is true; but your service was hard, and your wages were not enough for a man to live on — "for the wages of sin is death." So when I came of age I did what other thoughtful people do, and looked about to see whether I could better myself.
Apollyon. There is no prince who will lose his subjects as lightly as that, and I do not intend to lose you yet. But since you complain of your service and your wages, be content to come back; and I promise you here whatever our country can provide.
Christian. But I have hired myself out to another — to the King of princes; and how can I go back with you in any honesty?
Apollyon. In this you have done what the proverb says — swapped a bad master for a worse. But it is quite ordinary for people who have declared themselves his servants to give him the slip after a while and come back to me. You do the same, and all will be well.
Christian. I have given him my word and sworn my allegiance to him. How, then, can I go back on it and not be hanged as a traitor?
Apollyon. You did just the same to me — and yet I am willing to let it all go, if you will only turn round now and come back.
Christian. What I promised you, I promised when I was under age. And besides, I reckon the Prince under whose flag I now stand is able to release me from it — yes, and to pardon what I did in going along with you as well. And besides that, you destroying Apollyon: to tell you the truth, I like his service, his wages, his servants, his government, his company and his country better than yours. So stop trying to persuade me. I am his servant, and I mean to follow him.
Apollyon. Think again, once your blood has cooled, about what you are likely to meet on the road you are taking. You know that for the most part his servants come to a bad end, because they are offenders against me and against my ways. How many of them have been put to shameful deaths! And besides, you reckon his service better than mine, when he has never yet come out from the place where he is to deliver anybody who served him out of our hands — whereas I, as all the world knows perfectly well, have delivered any number of those who have faithfully served me, either by force or by trickery, out of his hands and his people's, even after they were captured. And I will deliver you too.
Christian. If he holds off from delivering them for the present, it is on purpose to test their love, and see whether they will hold to him to the end. And as for the bad end you say they come to, in their own reckoning that is the most glorious thing of all. Because as for being delivered here and now, they do not much expect it: they are waiting for their glory, and then they will have it, when their Prince comes in his own glory and the glory of the angels.
Apollyon. You have already been unfaithful in your service to him. How do you expect to get wages out of him?
Christian. In what way, Apollyon, have I been unfaithful to him?
Apollyon. You lost your nerve at the very start, when you were nearly choked in the Slough of Despond. You tried wrong roads to be rid of your burden, when you should have waited until your Prince took it off. You sinfully fell asleep and lost your most precious possession. You were very nearly talked into turning back at the sight of the lions. And when you talk about your journey and about what you have seen and heard, there is a hunger for glory in you, in everything you say and do.
Christian. All this is true, and a good deal more that you have left out. But the Prince I serve and honour is merciful and ready to forgive. And besides — these weaknesses took hold of me in your country. That is where I drank them in. And I have groaned under them, and been sorry for them, and have been pardoned by my Prince.
Apollyon. Then Apollyon broke out into a terrible rage, saying: I am an enemy to this Prince. I hate his person, his laws and his people. I have come out on purpose to stop you.
Christian. Apollyon, be careful what you do. I am on the king's highway, the way of holiness; so look to yourself.
Apollyon. Then Apollyon straddled right across the whole width of the road and said: I have no fear at all in this matter. Prepare to die; because I swear by my den in hell that you shall go no further. Here is where I spill your soul.
And with that he threw a flaming dart at his chest. But Christian had a shield in his hand, and caught it with that, and so escaped the danger.
Then Christian drew his sword, because he saw it was time to move. And Apollyon came at him just as fast, throwing darts as thick as hail; and by them, in spite of everything Christian could do to dodge, Apollyon wounded him in the head, the hand and the foot. This made Christian give a little ground; so Apollyon pressed his attack with full force, and Christian took heart again and fought back as hard as he could.
This bitter fight lasted more than half a day, until Christian was nearly spent — because you have to understand that Christian, with his wounds, was bound to grow weaker and weaker.
Then Apollyon, seeing his chance, closed right in on Christian, and wrestling with him, threw him down hard; and with that, Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then Apollyon said: I have you now. And with that he almost crushed him to death, so that Christian began to give up hope of living.
But as God would have it, while Apollyon was drawing back for his last blow, meant to finish this good man off altogether, Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for his sword and got hold of it, saying, "Do not gloat over me, my enemy; when I fall, I shall get up again." And with that he gave him a deadly thrust, which drove him back like a creature that has taken its death wound. Christian, seeing that, went at him again, saying, "No — in all these things we are more than conquerors, through him who loved us." And with that Apollyon spread out his dragon's wings and sped away, so that Christian saw him no more for a while.
Nobody can imagine, unless he had seen and heard it as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all through this fight. He spoke like a dragon. And on the other side, what sighs and groans burst out of Christian's heart. I never once saw him give so much as a single cheerful look the whole time, until he realized that he had wounded Apollyon with his two-edged sword; and then, indeed, he did smile and look upward. But it was the most terrible sight I ever saw.
So when the battle was over, Christian said, "Here I will give thanks to the one who delivered me out of the mouth of the lion — to the one who helped me against Apollyon." And so he did, saying:
Great Beelzebub, the captain of this fiend, planned my destruction, and to that same end sent him out armed; and he, with such a rage as only hell can give, joined me in battle. But blessed Michael helped me, and I, with a stroke of the sword, soon made him fly. So let me give him praise that has no end, and bless his holy name for evermore.
Then there came to him a hand, holding some of the leaves of the tree of life. Christian took them and put them on the wounds he had taken in the battle, and was healed immediately. He also sat down in that place to eat some bread and drink from the bottle that had been given him a little earlier. And so, refreshed, he set himself to his journey with his sword drawn in his hand; because he said, I do not know but that some other enemy may be close by. But he had no further trouble from Apollyon all the way through this valley.
Now at the end of this valley there was another, the Valley of the Shadow of Death; and Christian had no choice but to go through it, because the road to the Celestial City lay right through the middle of it. Now this valley is a very lonely place. The prophet Jeremiah describes it like this: "A wilderness, a land of deserts and of pits, a land of drought and of the shadow of death, a land that nobody" — nobody but a Christian — "passed through, and where nobody lived."
And here Christian was in worse trouble than he had been in his fight with Apollyon, as you will see from what followed.
Then I saw in my dream that when Christian had got to the edge of the Shadow of Death, two men met him — sons of the men who brought back a bad report of the good land — hurrying to go back the way they had come. Christian spoke to them like this.
Christian. Where are you going?
The men. They said: Back! Back! And we would advise you to do the same, if you set any value on either your life or your peace.
Christian. Why? What is the matter? said Christian.
The men. The matter! they said. We were going that way, the way you are going, and we went as far as we dared; and in fact we were nearly past the point of coming back at all. If we had gone a little further, we would not be here to bring you the news.
Christian. But what did you run into? said Christian.
The men. Why, we were nearly into the Valley of the Shadow of Death; only, luckily, we looked ahead of us and saw the danger before we got to it.
Christian. But what did you see? said Christian.
The men. See! Why, the valley itself, which is as black as pitch. We also saw the hobgoblins there, and satyrs, and dragons of the pit. And we heard in that valley a constant howling and yelling, like people in misery beyond words, sitting there bound in irons and affliction. And over that valley hang the discouraging clouds of confusion. Death is always spreading his wings over it too. In a word, the whole of it is terrible, and it has no order in it at all.
Christian. Then Christian said: From everything you have told me, I still see nothing to show that this is not my road to the harbour I want.
The men. Let it be your road; we will not choose it for ours.
So they parted, and Christian went on his way — but still with his sword drawn in his hand, for fear of being attacked.
Then I saw in my dream that for the whole length of this valley, there was on the right-hand side a very deep ditch. That ditch is the one into which the blind have led the blind in every age, and both of them have died miserably in it. And on the left-hand side there was a very dangerous bog, into which, if even a good man falls, he can find no bottom for his foot to stand on. King David once fell into that bog, and would no doubt have been smothered in it, if the one who is able had not pulled him out.
The path here was also extremely narrow, and so good Christian was all the harder pressed. Because when he tried in the dark to keep clear of the ditch on the one side, he was on the point of tipping over into the mud on the other; and when he tried to get away from the mud, without the greatest care he was ready to fall into the ditch. So he went on; and I heard him sighing bitterly here, because besides the dangers I have described, the path was so dark that time and again, when he lifted his foot to step forward, he had no idea where or on what he would be setting it down.
About the middle of this valley I made out the mouth of hell, and it stood right beside the road as well. Now, thought Christian, what am I going to do? And every now and then the flame and the smoke would come pouring out, with sparks and hideous noises — things that had no fear of Christian's sword the way Apollyon had — so that he was forced to put his sword away and take up another weapon, called All-prayer. So he cried out, in my hearing: "Lord, I beg you, deliver my soul!"
He went on like this for a long while, and still the flames kept reaching towards him. He heard mournful voices too, and rushing to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he was going to be torn to pieces, or trodden down like mud in the street. This terrifying sight was in front of him, and these dreadful noises in his ears, for several miles together.
And coming to a place where he thought he heard a company of fiends coming forward to meet him, he stopped and began to think out what he had best do. Sometimes he half thought of going back; then again he thought he might be halfway through the valley by now. He remembered too how many dangers he had already beaten, and that the danger of going back might be a good deal greater than going on. So he decided to keep going. And yet the fiends seemed to come nearer and nearer; but when they had got almost on top of him, he cried out in a tremendous voice, "I will walk in the strength of the Lord God!" — and at that they fell back, and came no further.
There is one thing I would not want to let slip past. I noticed that poor Christian was now so bewildered that he did not know his own voice; and this is how I could tell. Just as he came opposite the mouth of the burning pit, one of the wicked ones got in behind him and stepped up softly to him, and whispered a great many terrible blasphemies at him — which he genuinely believed had come out of his own mind. This put Christian to harder straits than anything he had met with before: to think that he was now blaspheming the one he had loved so much until then. And yet if he could have stopped it he would not have done it for anything; only he did not have the presence of mind either to stop his ears or to work out where these blasphemies were coming from.
When Christian had travelled in this wretched state for a considerable time, he thought he heard the voice of a man ahead of him on the road, saying, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me."
Then he was glad, and for these reasons.
First, because he gathered from it that there were others in this valley who feared God, besides himself.
Second, because he understood that God was with them, even in that dark and dismal place. And why not with me, he thought — even though, because of what this place puts in the way, I cannot make it out.
Third, because he hoped that if he could catch up with them he would have company before long.
So he went on, and called out to the man ahead of him. But the man did not know what to answer, because he thought he was alone too. And before long, day broke. Then Christian said: He has turned "the shadow of death into the morning."
Now that morning had come, he looked back — not out of any wish to go back, but to see by daylight what dangers he had come through in the dark. So he saw more clearly the ditch on the one hand and the bog on the other, and how narrow the road was that ran between the two of them. And now he saw the hobgoblins, and the satyrs, and the dragons of the pit as well — but all a long way off, because after daybreak they did not come near. Still, they were shown to him, as it is written: "He uncovers deep things out of darkness, and brings the shadow of death out into the light."
Now Christian was deeply moved at having been delivered from all the dangers of his lonely road. He had feared them more before, and yet he saw them more clearly now, because the daylight made them plain to him.
And about this time the sun was rising, and this was another mercy to Christian. Because you have to notice that although the first part of the Valley of the Shadow of Death was dangerous, this second part, which he still had to go, was if anything far more dangerous. From the place where he now stood right to the end of the valley, the road was set so thick with snares, traps, springs and nets on the one hand, and so full of pits, pitfalls, deep holes and sudden drops on the other, that if it had been dark now, as it was when he came through the first part, then had he a thousand souls, by any reasonable reckoning they would all have been thrown away. But, as I said, the sun was just now rising. So he said: "His lamp shines on my head, and by his light I walk through the darkness."
So he came to the end of the valley in this light. Now I saw in my dream that at the end of this valley there lay blood, bones, ashes and the mangled bodies of men — pilgrims, in fact, who had come this way before. And while I was wondering what the reason for it might be, I spotted a little ahead of me a cave, where two giants, Pope and Pagan, had lived in the old days; and it was by their power and tyranny that the men whose bones and blood and ashes lay there had been cruelly put to death.
But Christian went past this place without much danger, which surprised me somewhat. Since then, though, I have learned that Pagan has been dead many a long day; and as for the other, although he is still alive, he has grown so decrepit and so stiff in the joints — partly from age, and partly from the many sharp maulings he took in his younger days — that he can now do little more than sit at the mouth of his cave, grinning at pilgrims as they go past and biting his nails because he cannot get at them.
So I saw that Christian went on his way. Yet at the sight of the Old Man sitting in the mouth of the cave he did not know what to think — especially because the giant spoke to him, though he could not come after him, saying, "You will never learn until more of you are burned." But Christian held his tongue and put a good face on it, and so went past and took no harm. Then Christian sang:
What a world of wonders — I can say no less — that I should have been kept safe through the distress I met with here. Blessed for ever be the hand that has delivered me from it. Dangers in darkness, devils, hell and sin closed round me while I was that valley in; snares, pits and traps and nets lay all about my path, that worthless, silly I might be caught, and entangled, and thrown down for good. But since I live — let Jesus wear the crown.
Now as Christian went on his way, he came to a slight rise that had been thrown up on purpose so that pilgrims could see ahead of them. So Christian went up it; and looking forward, he saw Faithful ahead of him on the road. Then Christian called out: Hey! Hello there! Wait, and I will be your companion.
At that, Faithful looked behind him; and Christian called out again: Wait, wait, until I catch up with you.
But Faithful answered: No — I am running for my life, and the avenger of blood is behind me.
At this Christian was rather stung, and putting on all his strength he quickly came up with Faithful, and in fact overtook him; so the last was first. Then Christian smiled a rather self-satisfied smile at having got the better of his brother — and then, not watching his feet properly, he suddenly tripped and fell, and could not get up again until Faithful came along to help him.
Then I saw in my dream that they went on together very affectionately, and had a good long talk about everything that had happened to them on their pilgrimage; and Christian began.
Christian. My honoured and much-loved brother Faithful, I am glad I have caught up with you, and that God has matched our tempers so well that we can walk as companions along such a pleasant stretch of road.
Faithful. I had hoped, dear friend, to have had your company all the way from our town; but you got a start on me, and so I have been forced to come this much of the road alone.
Christian. How long did you stay in the City of Destruction before you set out after me on your pilgrimage?
Faithful. Until I could not stay any longer. There was a great deal of talk, right after you had gone out, that our city would shortly be burned to the ground with fire from heaven.
Christian. What — did your neighbours talk like that?
Faithful. Yes, for a while it was in everybody's mouth.
Christian. What! And did nobody but you come out to escape the danger?
Faithful. Although there was a great deal of talk about it, as I say, I do not think they really believed it. Because in the heat of the discussion I heard some of them speak sneeringly about you, and about your desperate journey — which is what they called this pilgrimage of yours. But I did believe it, and I believe still, that the end of our city will come with fire and brimstone from above; and so I made my escape.
Christian. Did you hear any talk about neighbour Pliable?
Faithful. Yes, Christian. I heard he followed you until he came to the Slough of Despond, where, so some said, he fell in — though he would not have it known that he had. But I am quite sure he was thoroughly spattered with that particular kind of mud.
Christian. And what did the neighbours say to him?
Faithful. Ever since he went back he has been an object of ridicule, and among every sort of person. Some mock him and look down on him, and hardly anybody will give him work. He is now seven times worse off than if he had never left the city at all.
Christian. But why should they be so set against him, when they despise the road he abandoned too?
Faithful. Oh — they say, hang him, he is a turncoat; he was not true to what he claimed to believe. I think God has stirred up even his enemies to hiss at him and make him a byword, because he abandoned the road.
Christian. Did you have any conversation with him before you came out?
Faithful. I met him once in the street, but he slunk off to the other side, like a man ashamed of what he had done; so I did not speak to him.
Christian. Well, when I first set out I had hopes of that man. But now I am afraid he will die in the destruction of the city. Because what has happened to him is exactly what the true proverb says: "The dog has gone back to its own vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mud."
Faithful. Those are my fears about him too. But who can stop what is going to be?
Christian. Well, neighbour Faithful, said Christian, let us leave him and talk about things that concern us more directly. Tell me now what you have met with on the road as you came; because I know you must have met with something, or else it would be a wonder worth writing down.
Faithful. I got clear of the Slough that I gather you fell into, and got up to the gate without that danger. Only I met with one whose name was Wanton, who came near to doing me real harm.
Christian. It was well for you that you got out of her net. Joseph was hard put to it by her, and he escaped her as you did — but it nearly cost him his life. What did she do to you?
Faithful. You cannot imagine — well, you know something of it — what a flattering tongue she had. She worked at me hard to turn aside with her, promising me every kind of satisfaction.
Christian. No — she did not promise you the satisfaction of a good conscience.
Faithful. You know what I mean. Every satisfaction of the body.
Christian. Thank God you escaped her. "The man the Lord detests shall fall into her ditch."
Faithful. Well — I am not sure whether I escaped her altogether or not.
Christian. Why, I trust you did not give in to what she wanted?
Faithful. No — not so far as defiling myself. Because I remembered an old piece of writing I had seen, which said, "Her steps take hold on hell." So I shut my eyes, because I did not want to be bewitched by her looks. Then she screamed abuse at me, and I went on my way.
Christian. Did you meet with no other attack as you came?
Faithful. When I came to the foot of the hill called Difficulty, I met a very old man who asked me what I was and where I was bound. I told him I was a pilgrim going to the Celestial City. Then the old man said: You look like an honest fellow. Would you be content to live with me for the wages I will give you? Then I asked his name and where he lived. He said his name was Adam the First, and that he lived in the town of Deceit.
Then I asked him what his work was, and what the wages would be. He told me his work was any number of delights, and that his wages were that I should be his heir at the end. I asked him further what kind of house he kept and what other servants he had. So he told me his house was kept up with all the delicacies in the world, and that his servants were of his own fathering. Then I asked whether he had any children. He said he had only three daughters — the Lust of the Flesh, the Lust of the Eyes and the Pride of Life — and that I could marry all three of them if I liked. Then I asked how long he would want me to live with him; and he told me, as long as he lived himself.
Christian. Well — and what did the old man and you settle on in the end?
Faithful. Why, at first I found myself rather inclined to go with him, because I thought he talked very fair. But looking at his forehead while I was talking with him, I saw written there: "Put off the old man with his deeds."
Christian. And what then?
Faithful. Then it came into my mind, burning hot, that whatever he said and however he flattered, once he had got me home to his house he would sell me for a slave. So I told him to stop talking, because I would not go near the door of his house. Then he abused me, and told me he would send somebody after me who would make my road bitter to my soul.
So I turned to go away from him. But just as I turned to leave, I felt him take hold of my flesh and give me such a deadly wrench backwards that I thought he had pulled part of me away with him. It made me cry out, "What a wretched man I am!" So I went on my way up the hill.
Now when I had got about halfway up, I looked behind me and saw somebody coming after me, swift as the wind; and he caught up with me just about where the bench stands.
Christian. Just there, said Christian, is where I sat down to rest; and being overcome with sleep, that is where I lost this scroll out of my coat.
Faithful. But hear me out, good brother. As soon as the man caught up with me, it was a word and a blow — down he knocked me and left me for dead. And when I had come round a little, I asked him why he had treated me so. He said, because of my secret leaning towards Adam the First; and with that he struck me another deadly blow on the chest and knocked me over backwards, so that I lay at his feet as dead as before.
So when I came round again I begged him for mercy; but he said, I do not know how to show mercy — and with that knocked me down again. He would certainly have finished me off, except that One came by and told him to stop.
Christian. Who was it that told him to stop?
Faithful. I did not know him at first; but as he went past I saw the holes in his hands and in his side, and then I concluded he was our Lord. So I went on up the hill.
Christian. The man who caught up with you was Moses. He spares nobody, and he does not know how to show mercy to those who break his law.
Faithful. I know it very well. It was not the first time he has met with me. He was the one who came to me when I was living comfortably at home, and told me he would burn my house down over my head if I stayed there.
Christian. But did you not see the house that stands there at the top of the hill, on the side where Moses met you?
Faithful. Yes, and the lions too, before I got to it. But as for the lions, I think they were asleep — it was about midday. And since I had so much of the day still ahead of me, I went past the porter and came on down the hill.
Christian. He did tell me that he saw you go by. But I wish you had called in at the house, because they would have shown you so many remarkable things that you would hardly have forgotten them to your dying day. But tell me, please — did you meet nobody in the Valley of Humiliation?
Faithful. Yes. I met one Discontent, who would gladly have talked me into going back with him. His argument was that there was no honour to be had in that valley at all. He told me, further, that going down there was a way of disobeying all my friends — Pride, Arrogance, Self-conceit, Worldly-glory and the rest, who, he said he knew, would be very much offended if I made such a fool of myself as to wade through this valley.
Christian. Well — and how did you answer him?
Faithful. I told him that although everybody he named might claim to be related to me, and rightly, since they really were my relations by blood, still, since I became a pilgrim they have disowned me, just as I have rejected them; and so they were no more to me now than if they had never been of my family at all.
I told him too that as far as this valley went, he had thoroughly misrepresented the thing; "for humility comes before honour, and a haughty spirit before a fall." So I said, I would rather go through this valley to the honour that the wisest people reckon as honour, than choose the thing he thought most worth our affection.
Christian. Did you meet with nothing else in that valley?
Faithful. Yes — I met with Shame. But of all the men I met on my pilgrimage, he is the one I think is wrongly named. The others would take no for an answer after a little argument and a bit besides; but this brazen-faced Shame would never be finished.
Christian. Why — what did he say to you?
Faithful. What! Why, he attacked religion itself. He said it was a pitiful, low, sneaking business for a man to give his mind to religion. He said a tender conscience was an unmanly thing, and that for a man to watch his words and his behaviour, and tie himself up from the swaggering freedom that the fine spirits of the age go in for, would make him the laughing stock of the times. He objected too that hardly any of the powerful, the rich or the clever had ever been of my opinion — nor any of them at all, until they had been talked into being fools, and into a deliberate foolishness that risks losing everything for nobody knows what. He also objected to the low and humble station of most of the pilgrims of their day, and to their ignorance and their lack of any education in the sciences.
Yes, and he pressed me at that rate about a great many more things than I am telling you here: that it was a shame to sit whining and mourning under a sermon, and a shame to come home sighing and groaning; that it was a shame to ask my neighbour's forgiveness for small faults, or to make things good where I had taken something from anyone. He said too that religion made a man stand off from the great, on account of a few vices, which he called by finer names; and made him acknowledge and respect the low, because they belonged to the same religious brotherhood. And is that not a shame? he said.
Christian. And what did you say to him?
Faithful. Say! At first I could not tell what to say. He put me to it so hard that the blood came up into my face — this Shame fetched it up, and very nearly beat me off altogether. But at last I began to consider that "what is highly valued among men is detestable in the sight of God." And I thought again: this Shame tells me what men are, but it tells me nothing about what God is, or what the Word of God is. And I thought, further, that on the day of judgment we shall not be sentenced to death or to life according to the swaggering spirits of this world, but according to the wisdom and the law of the Highest.
So, I thought, what God says is best really is best, even if every man in the world is against it. Seeing, then, that God prefers his own religion; seeing that God prefers a tender conscience; seeing that those who make fools of themselves for the kingdom of heaven are the wisest of all, and that a poor man who loves Christ is richer than the greatest man in the world who hates him — Shame, be off with you; you are an enemy to my salvation. Am I to take you in, against my sovereign Lord? How would I look him in the face when he comes? If I am ashamed of his ways and his servants now, how can I expect his blessing?
But this Shame really was a bold villain. I could hardly shake him out of my company; he would come haunting me, whispering in my ear about one or another of the weaknesses that go along with religion. But at last I told him it was no use trying any further with me, because the very things he despised were the ones in which I saw the most glory. And so at last I got past this pestering creature. And when I had shaken him off, I began to sing:
The trials that those men meet with on the way who are obedient to the heavenly call are many, and are fitted to the flesh, and come, and come, and come again afresh, so that now, or at some other time, we may be taken by them, beaten, thrown away. So let the pilgrims, let the pilgrims then be on their guard, and quit themselves like men.
Christian. I am glad, my brother, that you stood up to this villain so bravely; because of all of them, as you say, I think he is the one with the wrong name. He is so bold that he will follow us in the street and try to shame us in front of everybody — that is, to make us ashamed of what is good. And if he were not so brazen himself, he would never attempt what he does. But let us keep on resisting him; because for all his swagger, he advances nobody but the fool. "The wise shall inherit glory," Solomon said, "but shame shall be the promotion of fools."
Faithful. I think we shall have to cry out for help against Shame to the one who wants us to be valiant for the truth on the earth.
Christian. You are right. But did you meet nobody else in that valley?
Faithful. No, nobody — because I had sunshine the whole of the rest of the way through it, and through the Valley of the Shadow of Death as well.
Christian. It was well for you. I am sure it went very differently with me. Almost as soon as I entered that valley, I had a long and terrible fight with that foul fiend Apollyon. In fact I genuinely thought he would have killed me, especially when he got me down and crushed me under him as though he meant to crush me to pieces; because as he threw me, my sword flew out of my hand. He even told me he had me for certain. But I cried out to God, and he heard me and delivered me out of all my troubles. Then I went into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and had no light for almost half the way through it. I thought over and over that I was going to be killed there. But at last day broke and the sun rose, and I went through what was left of it with far more ease and quiet.
Moreover, I saw in my dream that as they went on, Faithful happened to look to one side and saw a man whose name is Talkative walking a little way off beside them; because in this place there was room enough for them all to walk. He was a tall man, and rather better-looking at a distance than close to. Faithful spoke to him like this.
Faithful. Friend, where are you off to? Are you going to the heavenly country?
Talkative. I am going to the same place.
Faithful. That is good; then I hope we may have the pleasure of your company.
Talkative. I shall be very glad indeed to be your companion.
Faithful. Come along, then, and let us go together, and spend our time discussing things that will do us good.
Talkative. Talking about good things is very agreeable to me, whether with you or with anybody else; and I am glad to have met people who are inclined to such a good occupation. Because, to tell you the truth, there are very few who care to spend their time that way as they travel — most would far rather be talking about things that do nobody any good. And that has been a grief to me.
Faithful. That is indeed something to be sorry about. Because what things on earth are so worthy of a man's tongue and mouth as the things of the God of heaven?
Talkative. I like you enormously, because what you say carries real conviction. And I will add: what is so pleasant, and what so profitable, as talking about the things of God? What things are so pleasant — that is, if a man takes any delight in things that are wonderful? For instance, if a man delights in talking about the history of things, or the mystery of them; or if a man loves to talk of miracles, wonders and signs — where will he find things recorded so delightfully, and so sweetly written, as in the Holy Scriptures?
Faithful. That is true. But being made better by such things in our talk should be what we are aiming at.
Talkative. That is exactly what I said. Because talking about such things is most profitable; a man may get knowledge of a great many things that way — of the emptiness of earthly things, for instance, and the value of the things above. That is speaking generally; but more particularly, by this a man may learn the necessity of the new birth, the insufficiency of our own works, the need of Christ's righteousness, and so on. Besides that, by talk a man may learn what it is to repent, to believe, to pray, to suffer, and the like. By this too a man may learn what the great promises and consolations of the Gospel are, to his own comfort. And further, by this a man may learn to refute false opinions, to defend the truth, and to instruct the ignorant.
Faithful. All this is true, and I am glad to hear these things from you.
Talkative. Alas — it is the lack of it that is the reason so few understand the need of faith, and the necessity of a work of grace in their souls if they are to have eternal life, but live on in ignorance under the works of the law, by which no man can possibly obtain the kingdom of heaven.
Faithful. But, if you will allow me — a heavenly knowledge of these things is the gift of God. No man arrives at it by his own effort, or merely by talking about them.
Talkative. All this I know very well. Because a man can receive nothing unless it is given him from heaven; it is all of grace, and not of works. I could give you a hundred scriptures to confirm it.
Faithful. Well then, said Faithful, what is the one subject we shall build our conversation on this time?
Talkative. Whatever you like. I will talk of things heavenly or things earthly; things moral or things evangelical; things sacred or things profane; things past or things to come; things foreign or things at home; things more essential or things merely circumstantial — so long as it is all done to our profit.
Faithful. Now Faithful began to wonder; and stepping over to Christian, who had been walking by himself all this while, he said to him quietly: What a splendid companion we have got! Surely this man will make an excellent pilgrim.
Christian. At this Christian smiled modestly, and said: This man you are so taken with will fool twenty people who do not know him, with that tongue of his.
Faithful. Do you know him, then?
Christian. Know him! Yes — better than he knows himself.
Faithful. Tell me — what is he?
Christian. His name is Talkative. He lives in our town. I am surprised you should be a stranger to him — though I suppose our town is a large one.
Faithful. Whose son is he? And whereabouts does he live?
Christian. He is the son of a man called Say-well, and he lived in Prating Row; and everybody who knows him knows him as Talkative of Prating Row. And for all his fine tongue, he is a poor specimen.
Faithful. Well, he seems a very fine man.
Christian. That is to people who do not know him thoroughly. He is at his best away from home; near home he is ugly enough. Your saying he is a fine man puts me in mind of something I have noticed in painters' work: some pictures look their best at a distance, and are a good deal less pleasant close up.
Faithful. But I am inclined to think you are only joking, because you smiled.
Christian. God forbid that I should joke about this — although I did smile — or that I should accuse anybody falsely. Let me tell you more about him. This man is for any company and any kind of talk. Just as he is talking with you now, so he will talk on the alehouse bench; and the more drink he has in his head, the more of these things he has in his mouth. Religion has no place in his heart, or his house, or his way of life. Everything he has is in his tongue, and his religion consists of making a noise with it.
Faithful. Do you say so? Then I have been badly taken in by this man.
Christian. Taken in! You may be sure of it. Remember the proverb, "They say, and do not." But "the kingdom of God is not in word, but in power." He talks about prayer, about repentance, about faith and about the new birth — but talking about them is all he can do. I have been in his family, and I have watched him both at home and away from it, and I know that what I am telling you about him is the truth. His house is as empty of religion as the white of an egg is of flavour. There is no prayer there, and no sign of any repentance for sin. In fact the animals, according to their kind, serve God far better than he does. He is the stain, the reproach and the shame of religion to everybody who knows him; religion can hardly get a good word said for it in that whole end of town, because of him. This is what the ordinary people who know him say: a saint abroad and a devil at home.
His poor family find it so. He is such a boor, such an abuser of his servants and so unreasonable with them, that they neither know how to do anything for him nor how to speak to him. People who have any business dealings with him say they would rather deal with a Turk than with him, because they would get fairer treatment. This Talkative will go one better than any of them, if he possibly can — cheat them, trick them and get the better of them. Besides that, he brings his sons up to follow in his footsteps; and if he finds in any of them what he calls a foolish timidity — which is his name for the first stirrings of a tender conscience — he calls them fools and blockheads, and will not employ them in anything much, or speak well of them in front of others. For my part, I believe that by his wicked life he has caused many people to stumble and fall, and that unless God prevents it he will be the ruin of many more.
Faithful. Well, my brother, I am bound to believe you — not only because you say you know him, but because you give your account of people like a Christian. I cannot think you say these things out of ill-will, but because it really is as you say.
Christian. If I had known him no better than you do, I might perhaps have thought of him as you did at first. And what is more, if this report had come only from people who are enemies of religion, I should have taken it for slander — the sort of thing that often falls from bad men's mouths onto good men's names and reputations. But all these things, and a great many more just as bad, I can prove him guilty of from my own knowledge. Besides, good men are ashamed of him. They can call him neither brother nor friend; the very mention of his name among them makes them blush, if they know him.
Faithful. Well, I see that saying and doing are two different things, and in future I shall keep a better eye on that distinction.
Christian. They are two different things indeed, and as different as the soul and the body. Because just as the body without the soul is nothing but a dead carcass, so saying, if it stands alone, is a dead carcass too. The soul of religion is the practical part: "Pure and undefiled religion before God the Father is this: to visit the fatherless and the widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained by the world." Talkative has no idea of this. He thinks that hearing and saying will make a good Christian, and so he deceives his own soul.
Hearing is only the sowing of the seed; and talking is not enough to prove that there is any fruit in the heart and the life. And let us be quite sure of it: on the day of judgment men will be judged according to their fruit. It will not be asked then, did you believe? — but, were you doers, or talkers only? And they will be judged accordingly. The end of the world is compared to our harvest; and you know that at harvest men take notice of nothing but the fruit. Not that anything can be accepted that does not come from faith; but I say this to show you how worthless Talkative's profession will be on that day.
Faithful. That brings to my mind what Moses says, when he describes the clean animal. It is one that both divides the hoof and chews the cud — not one that only divides the hoof, or only chews the cud. The hare chews the cud, and yet it is unclean, because it does not divide the hoof. And that really is a picture of Talkative. He chews the cud: he goes looking for knowledge, he chews over the word. But he does not divide the hoof; he does not part company with the way of sinners. Like the hare, he keeps the foot of a dog or a bear, and so he is unclean.
Christian. You have given, as far as I know, the true Gospel sense of those texts. And I will add another thing. Paul calls some men — and great talkers too — "sounding brass and a clanging cymbal"; which is, as he explains it elsewhere, "lifeless things giving sound." Lifeless things, that is, without the true faith and grace of the Gospel; and so, things that will never be given a place in the kingdom of heaven among the children of life, even though the sound they make in their talk might be the tongue or the voice of an angel.
Faithful. Well, I was not so very fond of his company at first, and I am thoroughly sick of it now. What are we to do to be rid of him?
Christian. Take my advice and do as I tell you, and you will find that he will soon be sick of your company too — unless God touches his heart and turns it.
Faithful. What would you have me do?
Christian. Why, go to him, and start a serious conversation about the power of religion. And when he has approved of it — which he will — ask him plainly whether this thing is set up in his heart, his house and his way of life.
Faithful. Then Faithful stepped forward again and said to Talkative: Well, how are things? How goes it now?
Talkative. Thank you, well. I thought we should have had a great deal of talk by this time.
Faithful. Well, if you like, we can set about it now. And since you left it to me to name the question, let it be this: how does the saving grace of God show itself, when it is in a man's heart?
Talkative. I see, then, that our talk is to be about the power of things. Well, it is a very good question, and I shall be glad to answer you. And take my answer briefly, like this. First, where the grace and work of God is in the heart, it produces a great outcry against sin. Secondly —
Faithful. No, wait — let us take one at a time. I think you should rather say that it shows itself by inclining the soul to hate its sin.
Talkative. Why, what difference is there between crying out against sin and hating it?
Faithful. Oh, a great deal. A man may cry out against sin as a matter of policy; but he cannot hate it except by a real godly loathing of it. I have heard many men cry out against sin in the pulpit who can put up with it perfectly well in their hearts, their houses and their way of living. Joseph's mistress cried out at the top of her voice as though she were the holiest of women — and would gladly, for all that, have committed the sin with him. Some cry out against sin the way a mother cries out at the child in her lap, calling it a filthy, naughty girl, and then falls to hugging and kissing it.
Talkative. You are trying to catch me out, I see.
Faithful. No, not I. I only want to get things straight. But what is the second thing by which you would prove there is a work of grace in the heart?
Talkative. Great knowledge of Gospel mysteries.
Faithful. This sign should have come first; but first or last, it is false as well. Because knowledge, and great knowledge, can be got in the mysteries of the Gospel with no work of grace in the soul at all. In fact, a man may have all knowledge and still be nothing, and so be no child of God.
When Christ said, "Do you know all these things?" and the disciples answered yes, he added, "You are blessed if you do them." He does not put the blessing in knowing them, but in doing them. Because there is a kind of knowledge that is not accompanied by doing: "He that knows his master's will, and does not do it." A man may know like an angel and still be no Christian; so your sign is not a true one. Knowing is a thing that pleases talkers and boasters, certainly; but doing is what pleases God. Not that the heart can be good without knowledge — without that the heart is worthless. So there is knowledge and there is knowledge: knowledge that rests in the bare theory of things, and knowledge that comes along with the grace of faith and love, which sets a man to doing the will of God from the heart. The first will do well enough for the talker; but without the second the true Christian is not satisfied. "Give me understanding, and I shall keep your law; yes, I shall observe it with my whole heart."
Talkative. You are trying to catch me out again. This is not building anybody up.
Faithful. Well, if you would rather, put forward another sign of how this work of grace shows itself where it exists.
Talkative. Not I — because I can see we are not going to agree.
Faithful. Well, if you will not, will you allow me to do it?
Talkative. You may do as you please.
Faithful. A work of grace in the soul shows itself either to the person who has it, or to those standing by.
To the person who has it, in this way. It gives him a conviction of sin — especially of the corruption of his own nature and the sin of unbelief, on account of which he is certain to be damned if he does not find mercy at God's hand through faith in Jesus Christ. Seeing and feeling this works sorrow and shame for sin in him. He finds, further, the Saviour of the world revealed in him, and the absolute necessity of closing with him for life; at which he finds himself hungering and thirsting after him — and it is to that hunger and thirst that the promise is made. Now, according to how strong or weak his faith in his Saviour is, so is his joy and his peace, so is his love of holiness, so is his desire to know him better and to serve him in this world.
But although I say it shows itself to him like this, it is still only rarely that he is able to conclude that this is a work of grace; because the corruption still in him, and the way his reason has been damaged, make his mind misjudge in this matter. So in the man who has this work, a very sound judgment is needed before he can steadily conclude that this is a work of grace.
To other people, it shows itself in this way.
First, by a confession of his faith in Christ that comes out of experience.
Second, by a life that matches that confession: a life of holiness — holiness in the heart; holiness in the family, if he has one; and holiness in his way of life out in the world. Which in general teaches him inwardly to hate his sin, and to hate himself for it, in private; to put it down in his family; and to promote holiness out in the world — not by talk only, as a hypocrite or a talkative person may do, but by a practical submission, in faith and love, to the power of the Word.
And now, sir, as to this brief description of the work of grace and of how it shows itself: if you have anything to object, object. If not, then allow me to put a second question to you.
Talkative. No — my part now is not to object but to listen. So let me have your second question.
Faithful. It is this. Do you know this first part of the description in your own experience? And does your life and your conduct bear the same witness? Or does your religion stand in word and tongue, and not in deed and truth? Please, if you are inclined to answer me, say nothing more than you know the God above will say amen to, and nothing but what your own conscience can back you up in. "Because it is not the man who commends himself who is approved, but the man the Lord commends." Besides, to say I am this and that, when my own conduct and all my neighbours tell me I am lying, is great wickedness.
Talkative. Then Talkative began to go red; but recovering himself, he answered like this. You are coming now to experience, and conscience, and God, and appealing to him to justify what is said. This kind of conversation is not what I expected, and I am not disposed to answer questions like these, because I do not consider myself under any obligation to — unless you are setting yourself up as my catechist. And even if you did, I might still refuse to make you my judge. But tell me, please: why do you ask me such questions?
Faithful. Because I saw you were forward to talk, and because I did not know that you had anything but theory. Besides — to tell you the whole truth — I have heard of you, that you are a man whose religion is in his talk, and that your way of living gives the lie to everything your mouth professes. They say you are a stain among Christians; that religion is the worse off for your ungodly conduct; that some have already stumbled over your wicked ways, and that more are in danger of being destroyed by them. Your religion, and an alehouse, and greed, and impurity, and swearing, and lying, and keeping empty company, all stand together quite comfortably. The proverb that is said of a whore is true of you — that she is a shame to all women; so you are a shame to all who profess this faith.
Talkative. Since you are so ready to take up rumours and to judge as rashly as you do, I cannot help concluding that you are some peevish or melancholy man, not fit to be talked with. And so, goodbye.
Christian. Then Christian came up and said to his brother: I told you how it would turn out. Your words and his appetites could not agree. He would rather leave your company than reform his life. But he is gone, as I said. Let him go; the loss is nobody's but his own. He has saved us the trouble of leaving him — because carrying on as he is, which I suppose he will, he would only have been a blot on our company. Besides, the apostle says, "From such people turn away."
Faithful. But I am glad we had this short conversation with him. It may be he will think about it again. However that may be, I have dealt plainly with him, and so I am clear of his blood if he is lost.
Christian. You did well to talk to him as plainly as you did. There is very little of this honest dealing with people nowadays, and that is what makes religion stink in so many people's nostrils. It is these talkative fools, whose religion is all words while their conduct is corrupt and empty, who — being allowed so far into the fellowship of the godly — baffle the world, disgrace Christianity and grieve the sincere. I wish everybody would deal with such people as you have done. Then they would either be brought more into line with religion, or the company of the saints would get too hot for them.
Then Faithful said:
How Talkative at first lifts up his plumes! How splendidly he speaks! How he presumes to sweep down all before him! But as soon as Faithful talks of heart-work, like the moon that's past the full, he dwindles as he goes. And so will all — except who heart-work knows.
So they went on talking about what they had seen along the way, and made easy going of a stretch that would otherwise, no doubt, have been tedious to them; because now they were going through a wilderness.
Now when they had got almost right out of this wilderness, Faithful happened to glance behind him and spotted somebody coming after them — and he knew him. Oh, said Faithful to his brother, who is that coming there? Then Christian looked, and said: It is my good friend Evangelist. Yes, and my good friend too, said Faithful, because it was he who set me on the road to the gate.
Now Evangelist came up to them, and greeted them like this.
Evangelist. Peace be with you, dearly beloved; and peace to those who help you.
Christian. Welcome, welcome, my good Evangelist. The sight of your face brings back to me your old kindness and your tireless labour for my eternal good.
Faithful. And a thousand times welcome, said good Faithful. Your company, dear Evangelist — how welcome it is to us poor pilgrims!
Evangelist. Then Evangelist said: How has it gone with you, my friends, since we last parted? What have you met with, and how have you conducted yourselves?
Then Christian and Faithful told him everything that had happened to them on the road, and how, and with what difficulty, they had got as far as that place.
Evangelist. I am very glad, said Evangelist — not that you have met with trials, but that you have come through them as victors, and that in spite of many weaknesses you have kept to the road to this very day.
I say I am very glad of it, both for my own sake and for yours. I have sown and you have reaped; and the day is coming when both the one who sowed and those who reaped shall rejoice together — that is, if you hold out, "for in due season you shall reap, if you do not faint." The crown is ahead of you, and it is one that cannot spoil; "so run, that you may obtain it." There are some who set out for this crown, and after they have gone a long way for it, somebody else comes in and takes it from them. So hold fast to what you have; let nobody take your crown.
You are not out of the devil's gunshot yet. You have not resisted to the point of blood in your struggle against sin. Keep the kingdom always in front of you, and believe steadily in the things that cannot be seen. Let nothing on this side of the other world get inside you. And above everything, keep good watch on your own hearts and on the appetites in them, "because they are deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked." Set your faces like flint; you have all the power in heaven and earth on your side.
Christian. Then Christian thanked him for his encouragement, but told him at the same time that they would like him to say more to them, to help them through the rest of the road — and all the more because they knew perfectly well that he was a prophet and could tell them about things that might happen to them, and how they might resist and overcome them. Faithful agreed with the request. So Evangelist began, as follows.
Evangelist. My sons, you have heard in the words of the truth of the Gospel that you must go through many troubles to enter the kingdom of heaven. And again, that in every city chains and afflictions are waiting for you. So you cannot expect to go long on your pilgrimage without them, in one form or another. You have already found something of the truth of these testimonies for yourselves, and more will follow immediately. Because now, as you see, you are almost out of this wilderness, and so you will soon come to a town that you will shortly see ahead of you; and in that town you will be set upon hard by enemies who will strain every nerve to kill you. And you may be certain that one or both of you must seal the testimony you hold with your blood. But be faithful to the point of death, and the King will give you a crown of life.
The one who dies there — although his death will be a violent one, and his pain perhaps great — will still have the better of his companion. Not only because he will arrive at the Celestial City soonest, but because he will escape a great many miseries that the other will meet with in the rest of his journey.
But when you have come to the town and find fulfilled what I have described to you here, then remember your friend, and quit yourselves like men, and commit the keeping of your souls to your God in well-doing, as to a faithful Creator.
Then I saw in my dream that when they had got out of the wilderness, they soon saw a town ahead of them, and the name of that town is Vanity. And at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair. It is kept all the year round. It is called Vanity Fair because the town where it is held is emptier than emptiness itself, and also because everything sold there, and everything that comes there, is vanity. As the wise man says, "All that comes is vanity."
This fair is no newly set-up business, but a thing of long standing; and I will show you how it began.
Almost five thousand years ago there were pilgrims walking to the Celestial City, just as these two honest men are. And Beelzebub, Apollyon and Legion, with their companions, seeing from the path the pilgrims made that their road to the city lay through this town of Vanity, arranged to set up a fair here — a fair where every kind of vanity should be sold, and one that should last all the year round.
So at this fair all such goods are sold as houses, land, trades, positions, honours, promotions, titles, countries, kingdoms, appetites, pleasures and delights of every sort: whores, pimps, wives, husbands, children, masters, servants, lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious stones, and anything else you like. And what is more, at this fair there is at all hours to be seen conjuring, swindles, games, plays, fools, apes, cheats and rogues, and of every kind there is.
Here too are to be seen, and for nothing, thefts, murders, adulteries and perjuries — and those of a blood-red colour.
And just as at other, smaller fairs there are the various rows and streets with their own names, where such and such goods are sold, so here likewise there are the proper places, rows and streets — that is to say, countries and kingdoms — where the goods of this fair are most quickly to be found. Here is the Britain Row, the French Row, the Italian Row, the Spanish Row, the German Row, where several sorts of vanities are for sale. But as at other fairs one particular commodity is the leading article of the whole fair, so here the goods of Rome and her merchandise are greatly promoted — only our English nation, along with some others, has taken a dislike to them.
Now as I said, the road to the Celestial City runs right through this town where this lusty fair is kept; and anyone who means to go to the City and yet not go through this town would have to "go out of the world" altogether. The Prince of princes himself, when he was here, went through this town on his way to his own country, and on a fair day at that. Yes, and I think it was Beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, who invited him to buy some of his vanities — and would have made him lord of the fair, if only he would have paid him homage as he went through the town. Indeed, because he was such a person of honour, Beelzebub took him from street to street and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a very short time, so that he might, if it were possible, tempt the Blessed One to haggle for some of his goods and buy them. But he had no interest in the merchandise, and so he left the town without laying out so much as a farthing on these vanities.
So this fair is an ancient thing of long standing, and a very great fair. Now these pilgrims, as I said, had no choice but to go through it. Well, so they did. But as soon as they entered the fair, all the people in it were stirred up, and the whole town was in an uproar about them; and that for several reasons.
First, the pilgrims were dressed in a kind of clothing quite different from the clothing of anybody who traded at that fair. So the people of the fair stood and stared at them: some said they were fools, some that they were madmen, and some that they were foreigners.
Second, as they wondered at their clothes, so they wondered at their speech; because hardly anybody could understand what they said. They naturally spoke the language of Canaan, while the people who kept the fair were the men of this world — so that from one end of the fair to the other, each seemed to the other to be talking gibberish.
Third, what bewildered the traders more than a little was that these pilgrims thought nothing at all of their goods. They did not even care to look at them. And when the traders called on them to buy, they would put their fingers in their ears and cry, "Turn my eyes away from looking at vanity," and look upwards, to show that their trade and their business was in heaven.
One man, watching how they behaved, happened to say to them mockingly: What will you buy? But they looked at him gravely and answered, "We buy the truth."
At that, the chance was taken to despise them still more. Some mocked, some jeered, some spoke abusively, and some called on others to hit them. At last things came to an uproar and a great commotion in the fair, so much so that all order broke down. Word was quickly taken to the great man of the fair, who came down at once and appointed some of his most trusted friends to take these men in for examination, since the fair had nearly been overturned on their account.
So the men were brought in for questioning; and those who sat in judgment on them asked where they came from, where they were going, and what they were doing there in such unusual clothes. The men told them that they were pilgrims and strangers in the world, and that they were going to their own country, which was the heavenly Jerusalem; and that they had given the men of the town and the traders no reason at all to abuse them like this and hinder them on their journey — unless it was that when somebody asked them what they would buy, they had said they would buy the truth.
But the men appointed to examine them did not believe they were anything but madmen and lunatics, or else people who had come to throw the whole fair into confusion. So they took them and beat them, and smeared them with filth, and then put them in the cage, so that they might be made a public spectacle to everybody at the fair.
So there they lay for some time, and were made the target of anybody's amusement or spite or revenge, while the great man of the fair went on laughing at everything that happened to them. But the men were patient, and did not give back abuse for abuse but the very opposite — blessing, and giving good words for bad and kindness for injuries done. And some men in the fair who were more observant and less prejudiced than the rest began to check the baser sort and blame them for the constant abuse they were handing out. So those men rounded on them angrily in their turn, reckoning them as bad as the men in the cage, and telling them that they seemed to be in league with them and should be made to share their misfortunes.
The others replied that as far as they could see the men were quiet and sober and meant nobody any harm, and that there were plenty trading in their own fair who deserved the cage a great deal more — yes, and the pillory too — than the men they had been abusing.
So after various words had passed on both sides, with the two men behaving themselves the whole time very wisely and soberly in front of them, they fell to blows among themselves and did each other real harm. Then these two poor men were brought before their examiners again, and charged with being responsible for the recent uproar in the fair.
So they beat them pitilessly, and hung irons on them, and led them up and down the fair in chains, as an example and a warning to everyone else, so that nobody would speak up for them or join them. But Christian and Faithful behaved more wisely still, and took the disgrace and shame that was thrown at them with so much meekness and patience that it won several of the men in the fair over to their side — though only a few, compared with the rest.
This threw the other party into a still greater rage, so that they settled on putting these two men to death. So they announced that the cage and the irons would not do for them after all, but that they should die for the wrong they had done and for leading the men of the fair astray.
Then they were sent back to the cage again until further orders should be given about them. So they put them in, and fastened their feet in the stocks.
And here they called to mind again what they had heard from their faithful friend Evangelist, and were all the more settled in their road and in their sufferings by what he had told them would happen. They also comforted each other now with the thought that whichever of them it fell to to suffer, that one would have the better of it. So each man privately wished that he might be the one given that privilege — but committing themselves to the all-wise ordering of the one who rules everything, they stayed contentedly in the state they were in, until something else should be settled about them.
Then a suitable time was appointed, and they brought them out for trial with a view to condemning them. When the time came they were brought before their enemies and formally charged. The Judge's name was Lord Hate-good. Their indictment was one and the same in substance, though it varied a little in wording, and its contents were these:
"That they were enemies to their trade and disturbers of it; that they had stirred up disorder and division in the town, and had won a following over to their own most dangerous opinions, in contempt of the law of their prince."
Then Faithful began to answer, and said that he had only set himself against whatever had set itself against the one who is higher than the highest. And, said he, as for disorder, I make none, being a man of peace myself. Those who were won over to us were won by seeing our truth and innocence, and they have only turned from the worse to the better. And as for this king you speak of, since he is Beelzebub, the enemy of our Lord, I defy him and all his angels.
Then it was announced that anybody who had something to say on behalf of their lord the king against the prisoner at the bar should come forward at once and give their evidence. So three witnesses came in — Envy, Superstition and Pickthank. They were then asked whether they knew the prisoner at the bar, and what they had to say for their lord the king against him.
Then Envy stood forward and said, in effect: My Lord, I have known this man a long time, and I will testify on oath before this honourable bench that he is —
Judge. Stop. Swear him in first. (So they swore him in.) Then he said:
Envy. My Lord, this man, for all his respectable-sounding name, is one of the vilest men in our country. He has no regard for prince or people, law or custom, but does everything he can to fill everyone's head with certain disloyal notions of his, which he generally calls principles of faith and holiness. And in particular, I heard him say once myself that Christianity and the customs of our town of Vanity were flatly opposed to one another and could not be reconciled. By which statement, my Lord, he condemns at a single stroke not only everything we do that is worthy of praise, but us as well, for doing it.
Judge. Then the Judge said to him: Have you anything more to say?
Envy. My Lord, I could say a great deal more, only I would not want to weary the court. Still, if it is needed, once the other gentlemen have given their evidence — rather than let anything be missing that will finish him off — I will extend my testimony against him.
So he was told to stand aside.
Then they called Superstition and told him to look at the prisoner. They also asked him what he could say for their lord the king against him. Then they swore him in, and he began.
Superstition. My Lord, I have no great acquaintance with this man, nor do I want to know any more of him. However, this much I do know: that he is a thoroughly pestilent fellow, from a conversation I had with him in this town the other day. Because talking with him then, I heard him say that our religion was worthless, and of a kind by which a man could not possibly please God. And from these statements of his, my Lord, your Lordship knows perfectly well what necessarily follows: namely, that we still worship for nothing, that we are still in our sins, and that we shall be damned in the end. And that is what I have to say.
Then Pickthank was sworn in and told to say what he knew, on behalf of their lord the king, against the prisoner at the bar.
Pickthank. My Lord, and all you gentlemen — I have known this fellow a long time, and have heard him say things that ought not to be said. Because he has abused our noble prince Beelzebub, and has spoken contemptuously of his honourable friends, whose names are the Lord Old Man, the Lord Carnal Delight, the Lord Luxurious, the Lord Desire of Vain Glory, my old Lord Lechery, Sir Having Greedy, and all the rest of our nobility. And he has said, further, that if everybody were of his mind, then if it were possible not one of these noblemen would go on existing in this town any longer. Besides that, he has not been afraid to abuse you, my Lord, who are now appointed to be his judge, calling you an ungodly villain, along with a great many other such insulting terms, with which he has spattered most of the gentry of our town.
When Pickthank had told his story, the Judge turned his speech to the prisoner at the bar, saying: You renegade, heretic and traitor — have you heard what these honest gentlemen have testified against you?
Faithful. May I say a few words in my own defence?
Judge. Fellow! Fellow! You deserve to live no longer, but to be killed on the spot. Still, so that everybody may see how gentle we are with you, let us hear what you, vile renegade, have to say.
Faithful. First, then, in answer to what Mr. Envy has said. I never said anything but this: that whatever rule, or law, or custom, or people stands flat against the Word of God is directly opposed to Christianity. If I have spoken wrongly in this, show me my error, and I am ready here in front of you to take it back.
Second, as to Mr. Superstition and his charge against me. I said only this: that in the worship of God a divine faith is required; but there can be no divine faith without a divine revelation of the will of God. So whatever is forced into the worship of God that does not agree with divine revelation cannot be done by anything but a human faith, and that faith will be of no use towards eternal life.
Third, as to what Mr. Pickthank has said. I say — leaving aside his terms, such as that I am supposed to have abused people, and the like — that the prince of this town, together with the whole rabble of his attendants named by this gentleman, are fitter to exist in hell than in this town and country. And so, the Lord have mercy on me.
Then the Judge called to the jury, who had been standing by all this while to listen and observe: Gentlemen of the jury, you see this man, about whom so great an uproar has been made in this town. You have also heard what these worthy gentlemen have testified against him. And you have heard his reply and his confession. It now lies with you to hang him or spare his life; but I think it right to instruct you first in our law.
There was an Act made in the days of Pharaoh the Great, a servant of our prince, that to prevent those of a different religion from multiplying and growing too strong for him, their male children should be thrown into the river. There was also an Act made in the days of Nebuchadnezzar the Great, another of his servants, that whoever would not fall down and worship his golden image should be thrown into a fiery furnace. There was also an Act made in the days of Darius, that whoever, for a certain period, called on any god but him should be thrown into the lions' den.
Now this rebel has broken the substance of all these laws — not only in thought, which is not to be borne, but in word and deed as well; and that must necessarily be intolerable.
As for Pharaoh's law: that was made on a supposition, to prevent trouble, when no crime had yet appeared. But here is a crime that has appeared. As for the second and third, you see that he argues against our religion; and for the treason he has confessed, he deserves to die.
Then the jury went out. Their names were Mr. Blind-man, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light and Mr. Implacable; and every one of them gave his private verdict against him among the rest, and afterwards they unanimously agreed to bring him in guilty before the Judge.
And first, among themselves, Mr. Blind-man the foreman said: I can see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then Mr. No-good said: Rid the earth of a fellow like that. Yes, said Mr. Malice, because I hate the very look of him. Then Mr. Love-lust said: I could never stand him. Nor could I, said Mr. Live-loose, because he was always condemning the way I live. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A miserable little wretch, said Mr. High-mind. My heart rises against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us get him out of the way, said Mr. Hate-light. Then Mr. Implacable said: If I were given the whole world, I could not be reconciled to him; so let us bring him in guilty and sentence him to death at once.
And so they did. So he was immediately condemned — to be taken from the place where he was to the place he had come from, and there to be put to the cruellest death that could be devised.
So they brought him out, to deal with him according to their law. And first they whipped him, then they beat him with their fists, then they slashed his flesh with knives; after that they stoned him with stones, then jabbed him with their swords; and last of all they burned him to ashes at the stake. And so Faithful came to his end.
Now I saw that behind the crowd there stood a chariot and a pair of horses, waiting for Faithful. And as soon as his enemies had finished him off, he was taken up into it, and was carried straight up through the clouds with the sound of a trumpet, by the shortest way to the Celestial Gate.
But as for Christian, he had some respite, and was sent back to prison. So he stayed there for a while. But the one who overrules everything, holding the power of their rage in his own hand, so arranged things that Christian escaped them for the time being and went on his way. And as he went, he sang:
Well, Faithful, you have faithfully professed before your Lord, and you shall be his guest and blessed with him, when faithless men, who prized their empty pleasures, cry out in the fires. Sing, Faithful, sing, and let your name survive; for though they killed you, you are still alive.
Now I saw in my dream that Christian did not go out alone. There was one whose name was Hopeful — made so by watching Christian and Faithful, in their words and their behaviour, through their sufferings at the Fair — who joined himself to Christian, and entering into a brotherly agreement with him, told him he would be his companion. So one man died to bear witness to the truth, and another rose out of his ashes to be Christian's companion on his pilgrimage. This Hopeful also told Christian that there were a good many more of the men at the Fair who would take their time and follow on after them.
So I saw that soon after they had got out of the Fair, they caught up with somebody walking ahead of them, whose name was By-ends. So they said to him: What part of the country are you from, sir? And how far are you going this way? He told them he came from the town of Fair-speech and was going to the Celestial City — but he did not tell them his name.
From Fair-speech! said Christian. Is there anything good living there?
By-ends. Yes, said By-ends, I hope so.
Christian. Tell me, sir — what may I call you? said Christian.
By-ends. I am a stranger to you and you to me. If you are going this way, I shall be glad of your company; if not, I shall have to be content.
Christian. This town of Fair-speech, said Christian — I have heard of it; and as I recall, they say it is a wealthy place.
By-ends. Yes, I can promise you it is. And I have a great many rich relations there.
Christian. Tell me — who are your relations there, if a man may be so bold?
By-ends. Nearly the whole town; and in particular my Lord Turnabout, my Lord Timeserver, my Lord Fair-speech — from whose ancestors the town first took its name — and Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Facing-both-ways and Mr. Anything. And the parson of our parish, Mr. Two-tongues, was my mother's own brother on the father's side. And to tell you the truth, I have become a gentleman of good standing; and yet my great-grandfather was only a waterman, looking one way and rowing another — and I got most of my estate by the same trade.
Christian. Are you a married man?
By-ends. Yes, and my wife is a very virtuous woman, the daughter of a virtuous woman. She was my Lady Feigning's daughter, so she comes of a very honourable family, and has reached such a pitch of breeding that she knows how to conduct herself with everybody, prince and peasant alike. It is true that we differ a little in religion from the stricter sort, but only on two small points. First, we never struggle against wind and tide. Second, we are always at our most enthusiastic when religion goes about in his silver slippers; we love to walk with him in the street if the sun is shining and the people are applauding him.
Then Christian stepped a little aside to his companion Hopeful and said: It runs in my mind that this is one By-ends of Fair-speech; and if it is, we have as complete a scoundrel in our company as lives anywhere in these parts.
Then Hopeful said: Ask him. I should not have thought he would be ashamed of his name.
So Christian came up with him again and said: Sir, you talk as though you knew rather more than the rest of the world does; and if I am not mistaken, I think I can half guess who you are. Is your name not Mr. By-ends of Fair-speech?
By-ends. That is not my name. It is a nickname given me by certain people who cannot stand me; and I must be content to bear it as an insult, as other good men have borne theirs before me.
Christian. But did you never give people any reason to call you by that name?
By-ends. Never, never! The worst I ever did to give them the excuse for it was that I always had the luck to find my own judgment falling in with the way of the times, whatever it happened to be — and my chance was to profit by it. But if things come to me that way, let me count it a blessing; and let not the malicious load me with abuse on account of it.
Christian. I did think you were the man I had heard about; and to tell you what I think, I am afraid this name belongs to you rather more properly than you would like us to believe.
By-ends. Well, if you choose to imagine so, I cannot help it. You will find me a fair-minded companion, if you will still let me be your associate.
Christian. If you are going to come with us, you must go against wind and tide — which I gather is against your opinion. You must also acknowledge religion in his rags as well as in his silver slippers; and stand by him when he is in irons as well as when he walks the streets to applause.
By-ends. You must not impose on me, or lord it over my faith. Leave me my liberty, and let me come with you.
Christian. Not a step further, unless you will do exactly what I have just said, as we do.
Then By-ends said: I shall never desert my old principles, since they are harmless and profitable. If I may not go with you, I must do what I did before you caught up with me — go by myself, until somebody catches up with me who will be glad of my company.
Now I saw in my dream that Christian and Hopeful left him and kept their distance ahead of him. But one of them, looking back, saw three men following Mr. By-ends; and as they came up with him he made them a very low bow, and they paid him a compliment in return. The men's names were Mr. Hold-the-world, Mr. Money-love and Mr. Save-all — men Mr. By-ends had known before, because in their boyhood they had been schoolfellows together, taught by one Mr. Gripeman, a schoolmaster in Love-gain, which is a market town in the county of Coveting, in the north. This schoolmaster taught them the art of getting, whether by force, fraud, flattery, lying, or by putting on a show of religion; and these four gentlemen had picked up a great deal of their master's art, so that any one of them could have kept such a school himself.
Well, when they had greeted each other, as I said, Mr. Money-love said to Mr. By-ends: Who are those on the road ahead of us? — because Christian and Hopeful were still in sight.
By-ends. They are a couple of men from a far country who, in their own fashion, are going on pilgrimage.
Money-love. What a pity! Why did they not wait, so that we might have had the pleasure of their company? Because they, and we, and you too, sir, I hope, are all going on pilgrimage.
By-ends. So we are, indeed. But the men ahead of us are so rigid, and so much in love with their own notions, and think so little of anybody else's opinions, that let a man be as godly as you please, if he does not fall in with them on every point they push him clean out of their company.
Save-all. That is hard. But we do read of some who are righteous overmuch; and men like that are driven by their own rigidity to judge and condemn everybody but themselves. But tell me, please — what were the things you differed about, and how many?
By-ends. Why, in their headstrong way they conclude that it is a duty to rush on with their journey in all weathers, while I am for waiting for wind and tide. They are for risking everything for God at a single stroke; I am for taking every advantage to secure my life and my property. They are for holding on to their notions though everybody else is against them; I am for religion in whatever way, and as far as, the times and my own safety will allow. They are for religion when he is in rags and out of favour; I am for him when he walks in his golden slippers, in the sunshine, and with applause.
Mr. Hold-the-world. Yes — and you stay right there, good Mr. By-ends. Because for my part I can count a man nothing but a fool who, having the freedom to keep what he has, is unwise enough to lose it. Let us be as wise as serpents. It is best to make hay while the sun shines. You see how the bee lies still all winter and stirs herself only when she can have profit along with her pleasure. God sends sometimes rain and sometimes sunshine; if they are fools enough to go through the first, let us at least be content to take the fair weather along with us.
For my part, I like that religion best which will stand together with the security of God's good blessings to us. Because who that is governed by his reason could imagine, since God has given us the good things of this life, that he does not mean us to keep them for his sake? Abraham and Solomon grew rich in religion. And Job says that a good man shall pile up gold like dust. But he must not be the sort of man these two ahead of us are, if they are as you have described them.
Mr. Save-all. I think we are all agreed on this, and so there is no need for any more words about it.
Mr. Money-love. No, there is no need for more words about it indeed; because a man who believes neither Scripture nor reason — and you see we have both on our side — neither knows his own liberty nor looks after his own safety.
Mr. By-ends. My brothers, we are all going on pilgrimage, as you see. And to keep our minds better off bad things, allow me to put this question to you. Suppose a man — a minister, or a tradesman, or whatever he may be — should have an opportunity in front of him to get the good blessings of this life, but in such a way that he can only get at them by becoming, in appearance at least, unusually enthusiastic about some points of religion that he never bothered with before. May he not use this means to reach his end, and still be a thoroughly honest man?
Mr. Money-love. I see the bottom of your question; and with these gentlemen's permission I will try to shape an answer for you.
And first, to speak to your question as it concerns a minister. Suppose a minister, a worthy man, who holds only a very small living and has his eye on a greater one, far richer and fatter. And suppose he now has an opportunity of getting it, but only by being more studious, by preaching more often and more zealously, and — because the temper of the people requires it — by altering some of his principles. For my part, I see no reason why a man may not do this, provided he has a call to it. Yes, and a good deal more besides, and still be an honest man. And here is why.
First, his desire for a greater living is lawful — this cannot be denied — since Providence has set it in front of him. So he may get it if he can, and raise no question of conscience about it.
Second, his desire for that living makes him more studious, a more zealous preacher, and so on, and so makes him a better man; yes, and makes him improve his abilities better, which is according to the mind of God.
Third, as for his falling in with the temper of his people by giving up some of his principles in order to serve them, this shows: one, that he is of a self-denying temper; two, that he has a sweet and winning manner; and so, three, that he is all the fitter for the ministry.
Fourth, I conclude, then, that a minister who exchanges a small living for a large one should not be judged greedy for doing it, but rather — since his abilities and his industry are improved by it — should be counted a man who is following his calling and the opportunity put into his hand to do good.
And now to the second part of the question, which concerns the tradesman you mentioned. Suppose a man like that has only a poor business in the world, but by becoming religious he may improve his trade, perhaps get a rich wife, or better and more numerous customers for his shop. For my part I see no reason why this may not lawfully be done. And here is why.
First, to become religious is a virtue, by whatever means a man becomes so.
Second, it is not unlawful to get a rich wife, or more trade for my shop.
Third, besides, the man who gets these things by becoming religious gets what is good, from people who are good, by becoming good himself. So then here is a good wife, and good customers, and good profit, and all of them got by becoming religious, which is good. Therefore to become religious in order to get all these is a good and profitable plan.
This answer, made by Mr. Money-love to Mr. By-ends' question, was highly applauded by all of them; so they concluded, on the whole, that it was thoroughly wholesome and advantageous. And because they thought nobody was able to contradict it, and because Christian and Hopeful were still within calling distance, they jointly agreed to attack them with the question as soon as they caught up — all the more since the two had opposed Mr. By-ends a little earlier.
So they called after them, and Christian and Hopeful stopped and stood still until they came up. But they had settled as they went that it should not be Mr. By-ends but old Mr. Hold-the-world who put the question to them, because they supposed the answer given to him would be free of the last of the heat that had flared up between Mr. By-ends and the two of them at their parting a little while before.
So they came up to one another; and after a short greeting, Mr. Hold-the-world put the question to Christian and his companion, and told them to answer it if they could.
Christian. Then Christian said: Even a baby in religion could answer ten thousand questions like that. Because if it is unlawful to follow Christ for the sake of bread — as it is in the sixth chapter of John — how much more disgusting is it to make him and religion into a stalking-horse for getting and enjoying the world! Nor do we find anybody but heathens, hypocrites, devils and witches who are of this opinion.
First, heathens. When Hamor and Shechem had a mind to Jacob's daughter and his cattle, and saw that there was no way for them to get at them except by being circumcised, they said to their companions: if every male among us is circumcised, as they are, will not their cattle and their goods and every beast of theirs become ours? Their daughter and their cattle were what they were after, and their religion was the stalking-horse they used to get at them. Read the whole story.
Second, the hypocritical Pharisees were of this religion too. Long prayers were their pretence, but getting widows' houses was their intention; and greater damnation from God was their sentence.
Third, Judas the devil was of this religion. He was religious for the money-bag, so that he could get hold of what was in it; but he was lost, thrown away, the very son of destruction.
Fourth, Simon the sorcerer was of this religion too, because he wanted the Holy Spirit so that he could make money with it; and his sentence out of Peter's mouth was accordingly.
Fifth, I cannot get it out of my mind that the man who takes up religion for the sake of the world will throw religion away for the sake of the world. Because just as surely as Judas had the world in view when he became religious, so surely did he sell religion and his Master for it too.
So to answer this question in the affirmative, as I gather you have done, and to accept such an answer as sound, is heathenish, hypocritical and devilish alike; and your reward will be according to what you have done.
Then they stood staring at one another, but had nothing to answer Christian with. Hopeful also approved the soundness of Christian's answer; so there was a great silence among them. Mr. By-ends and his company faltered too and kept back, so that Christian and Hopeful could get ahead of them.
Then Christian said to his companion: If these men cannot stand before the judgment of men, what will they do with the judgment of God? And if they are struck dumb when they are dealt with by vessels of clay, what will they do when they are rebuked by the flames of a devouring fire?
Then Christian and Hopeful got ahead of them again, and went on until they came to a delightful plain called Ease, where they went along very contentedly. But that plain was narrow, so they were quickly over it.
Now on the far side of that plain there was a little hill called Lucre, and in that hill a silver mine, which some of those who had gone that way before had turned aside to look at, because of how unusual it was. But going too near the edge of the pit, they found the ground treacherous under them; it gave way, and they were killed. Some had also been maimed there, and could never to their dying day be themselves again.
Then I saw in my dream that a little off the road, opposite the silver mine, stood Demas, looking every inch a gentleman, calling to passers-by to come and look. He said to Christian and his companion: Hey there! Turn aside this way, and I will show you something.
Christian. What is so worth seeing that it would justify turning us off our road?
Demas. Here is a silver mine, and some men digging in it for treasure. If you will come, then for a little trouble you may set yourselves up very handsomely.
Hopeful. Then Hopeful said: Let us go and look.
Christian. Not I, said Christian. I have heard of this place before now, and how many have been killed at it. And besides that, treasure is a trap to those who go looking for it, because it holds them back on their pilgrimage.
Then Christian called out to Demas, saying: Is the place not dangerous? Has it not held a good many people back on their pilgrimage?
Demas. Not very dangerous — except to the careless. (But he went red as he said it.)
Christian. Then Christian said to Hopeful: Let us not move a single step, but keep straight on our way.
Hopeful. I will guarantee you that when By-ends comes up, if he gets the same invitation we did, he will turn aside to have a look.
Christian. No doubt about it, because his principles lead him that way; and it is a hundred to one that he dies there.
Demas. Then Demas called again, saying: But will you not come over and look?
Christian. Then Christian answered him flatly, saying: Demas, you are an enemy to the right ways of the Lord of this road, and you have already been condemned for turning aside yourself by one of his Majesty's judges. Why are you trying to bring us in for the same condemnation? Besides, if we turn aside at all, our Lord the King will certainly hear about it, and will put us to shame there, where we would rather stand before him with confidence.
Demas called out again that he was one of their brotherhood too, and that if they would wait a little he would come and walk with them himself.
Christian. Then Christian said: What is your name? Is it not the same one I called you by?
Demas. Yes, my name is Demas. I am a son of Abraham.
Christian. I know you. Gehazi was your great-grandfather and Judas your father, and you have walked in their footsteps. This is nothing but a devilish trick you are playing. Your father was hanged as a traitor, and you deserve no better reward. You may be sure that when we come to the King, we shall give him word of this behaviour of yours.
So they went on their way.
By this time By-ends and his companions had come back into sight, and at the first signal they went straight over to Demas. Now whether they fell into the pit by leaning over the edge of it, or whether they went down to dig, or whether they were smothered at the bottom by the foul air that usually rises in such places, I am not certain. But this much I noticed: they were never seen on the road again.
Then Christian sang:
By-ends and silver Demas both agree; one calls, the other runs, so he may be a sharer in his profit. Both of these settle for this world, and go no further on.
Now I saw that just on the other side of this plain, the Pilgrims came to a place where an old monument stood close by the roadside; and they were both troubled at the sight of it, because the shape of it was so strange. It seemed to them to be a woman transformed into a pillar. So they stood there looking at it, and looking again, and for some time could not tell what to make of it.
At last Hopeful noticed writing above its head, in an unfamiliar hand. But being no scholar, he called Christian over, who was the educated one, to see whether he could pick out the meaning. So Christian came, and after piecing the letters together for a little he found it was this: "Remember Lot's wife."
So he read it out to his companion; after which they both concluded that this was the pillar of salt that Lot's wife had been turned into, for looking back with a greedy heart as she was leaving Sodom for safety. And this sudden and astonishing sight gave them the occasion for this conversation.
Christian. Ah, my brother — this is a well-timed sight! It came just when we needed it, right after the invitation Demas gave us to come over and look at the Hill Lucre. If we had gone over as he wanted us to, and as you were inclining to do, my brother, then for all I know we would have been made like this woman ourselves — a spectacle for everybody who came after us to stare at.
Hopeful. I am sorry I was so foolish, and I am left wondering that I am not standing here now as Lot's wife is. Because what was the difference between her sin and mine? She only looked back — and I wanted to go over and see. Let grace be praised, and let me be ashamed that such a thing was ever in my heart at all.
Christian. Let us take note of what we see here, to help us in time to come. This woman escaped one judgment, since she did not die in the destruction of Sodom; and yet she was destroyed by another, as we can see — she is turned into a pillar of salt.
Hopeful. True. And she can serve us as both a warning and an example: a warning, that we should keep clear of her sin; and a sign of what judgment will overtake those who are not stopped by the warning. In the same way Korah, Dathan and Abiram, with the two hundred and fifty men who died in their sin, also became a sign or an example to others to beware.
But above all, one thing puzzles me: how Demas and his companions can stand over there so confidently, looking for the very treasure that this woman was turned into a pillar of salt merely for looking back after — because we do not read that she took so much as one step off the road. And all the more since the judgment that came on her made her an example within sight of where they are standing; they cannot help seeing her, if they would only lift their eyes.
Christian. It is a thing to wonder at, and it shows that their hearts have grown desperate in the matter. I cannot think who to compare them to so exactly as to people who pick pockets in the presence of the judge, or cut purses under the gallows. It is said of the men of Sodom that they were sinners exceedingly, because they were sinners before the Lord — that is, in his sight, and in spite of all the kindnesses he had shown them; because the land of Sodom was in those days like the garden of Eden. That is what provoked him all the more to jealousy, and made their punishment as hot as the fire of the Lord out of heaven could make it.
And it is entirely reasonable to conclude that people like this — sinning in full view, and in the teeth of the very examples set constantly in front of them to warn them off — must come in for the severest judgments there are.
Hopeful. You have certainly spoken the truth. But what a mercy it is that neither you, and above all not I, has been made into this example! This gives us reason to thank God, to fear him, and always to remember Lot's wife.
Then I saw that they went on their way to a pleasant river, which King David called "the river of God" and John "the river of the water of life." Now their road ran right along the bank of the river, and here Christian and his companion walked with great delight. They drank the water of the river too, which was sweet, and put new life into their tired spirits. Besides that, on both banks of this river there were green trees bearing every kind of fruit, and the leaves of the trees were good for medicine. They were delighted with the fruit of these trees as well, and they ate the leaves to keep off the sickness and the other complaints that come to people who overheat their blood with travelling. On each side of the river there was also a meadow, beautifully set with lilies, and it was green all the year round.
In this meadow they lay down and slept, because here they could lie down in safety. When they woke, they gathered more fruit from the trees and drank more of the water of the river, and then lay down to sleep again. They did this for several days and nights. Then they sang:
Look how these crystal waters slip and slide to comfort pilgrims by the highway side; the meadows green, besides their fragrant smell, set out a feast for them. And who can tell what pleasant fruit, what leaves these trees will yield, will sell up all he has to buy this field.
So when they were minded to go on — because they were not at their journey's end yet — they ate and drank and set off.
Now I saw in my dream that they had not travelled far before the river and the road parted company for a while; at which they were more than a little sorry, and yet they did not dare go off the road. Now the road away from the river was rough, and their feet were sore from all their travelling; "so the souls of the pilgrims were much discouraged because of the way." So as they went on, they kept wishing for a better road.
Now a little ahead of them, on the left-hand side of the road, there was a meadow with a stile going over into it, and that meadow is called By-path Meadow. Then Christian said to his companion: If this meadow runs alongside our road, let us go over into it. So he went to the stile to look — and there, on the other side of the fence, was a path running along beside the road.
Just what I wanted, said Christian. Here is the easier walking. Come along, good Hopeful, and let us go over.
Hopeful. But what if this path should lead us off the road?
Christian. That is not likely, said the other. Look — does it not run right alongside it?
So Hopeful, persuaded by his companion, went after him over the stile. Once they were over and onto the path, they found it very easy on their feet; and looking ahead of them, they spotted a man walking as they were, whose name was Vain-confidence. So they called after him and asked where that path led. He said, to the Celestial Gate.
Look, said Christian — did I not tell you? By this you can see we are right.
So they followed on, and he went ahead of them. But then night came on and it grew very dark, so that the two behind lost sight of the man in front.
So the man in front — Vain-confidence by name — not being able to see the way ahead of him, fell into a deep pit, which had been dug there on purpose by the Prince of those grounds to catch conceited fools with; and he was smashed to pieces by the fall.
Now Christian and his companion heard him fall. So they called out to ask what had happened, but there was nobody to answer; they only heard a groaning.
Hopeful. Then Hopeful said: Where are we now?
At that his companion fell silent, suspecting that he had led him off the road. And now it began to rain, and thunder and lighten most terribly, and the water rose fast.
Then Hopeful groaned to himself, saying: Oh, if only I had kept to my road!
Christian. Who could have thought that this path would lead us off the way?
Hopeful. I was afraid of it from the very first, and that is why I gave you that gentle warning. I would have spoken plainer, except that you are older than I am.
Christian. Good brother, do not take offence. I am sorry I have brought you off the road, and that I have put you into such immediate danger. Please, my brother, forgive me. I did not do it with any bad intention.
Hopeful. Take comfort, my brother, for I do forgive you; and I believe too that this will turn out for our good.
Christian. I am glad I have a merciful brother with me. But we must not stand about like this. Let us try to get back again.
Hopeful. But, good brother, let me go first.
Christian. No, if you please, let me go first — so that if there is any danger I may be the first into it, since it is by my doing that we are both off the road.
Hopeful. No, said Hopeful, you shall not go first; because your mind is troubled, and it may lead you off the road again.
Then, to encourage them, they heard a voice saying: "Set your heart towards the highway, the very road you came by; turn back again." But by this time the waters had risen a great deal, which made going back very dangerous. (And it occurred to me then that it is easier to go off the road when you are on it than to get back on when you are off it.) Still, they risked going back — but it was so dark, and the flood was so high, that going back they were within an inch of drowning nine or ten times.
Nor could they, for all the skill they had, get back to the stile that night. So at last, coming upon a little shelter, they sat down there until daybreak; but being worn out, they fell asleep.
Now there was, not far from where they lay, a castle called Doubting Castle, whose owner was Giant Despair; and it was in his grounds that they were now sleeping. So getting up early in the morning and walking up and down his fields, he caught Christian and Hopeful asleep on his land. Then in a grim, surly voice he told them to wake up, and asked them where they were from and what they were doing on his grounds. They told him they were pilgrims and that they had lost their way.
Then the Giant said: You have trespassed on me tonight, tramping over my grounds and lying down on them, and so you must come along with me.
So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they were. They also had very little to say for themselves, because they knew they were in the wrong. So the Giant drove them ahead of him and put them in his castle, into a very dark dungeon, filthy and stinking to the spirits of these two men. And here they lay from Wednesday morning to Saturday night without a bite of bread or a drop of water, or any light, or anybody to ask how they were. So they were in a bad way here, and a long way from friends and acquaintances. And in this place Christian had a double sorrow, because it was through his own ill-considered advice that they had been brought into this trouble.
Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence — which is to say Distrust. So when he had gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done: that he had taken a couple of prisoners and thrown them into his dungeon for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her what he had best do with them next. So she asked him what they were, where they had come from and where they were bound; and he told her. Then she advised him that when he got up in the morning he should beat them without any mercy at all.
So when he got up he fetched himself a heavy crabapple club, and went down into the dungeon to them; and there he first set about swearing at them as if they were dogs, although they had never given him a word of offence. Then he set on them and beat them terribly, and so thoroughly that they could not help themselves or even turn over on the floor. This done, he went off and left them there to grieve over their misery and mourn under their distress. So they spent that whole day in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations.
The next night, talking with her husband about them again and learning that they were still alive, she advised him to urge them to make an end of themselves. So when morning came he went to them in the same surly way as before; and seeing that they were very sore from the beating he had given them the day before, he told them that since they were never likely to get out of that place, their best course would be to finish themselves off at once — with a knife, a rope or poison. Because why, said he, should you choose life, when it comes with so much bitterness in it?
But they begged him to let them go. At that he gave them an ugly look, and rushing at them would no doubt have finished them off himself — except that he fell into one of his fits, because in sunny weather he sometimes did, and lost the use of his hand for a while. So he went off and left them, as before, to think about what to do.
Then the prisoners talked it over between themselves, whether it was best to take his advice or not; and this is how the conversation began.
Christian. Brother, said Christian, what are we going to do? The life we are living now is miserable. For my part I do not know which is better, to live like this or to die out of hand. "My soul chooses strangling rather than life," and the grave would be easier for me than this dungeon. Shall we be governed by what the Giant says?
Hopeful. Our present condition is dreadful, certainly, and death would be far more welcome to me than staying here for ever. But even so, let us consider: the Lord of the country we are going to has said, You shall do no murder — not to another man's person; so how much more are we forbidden to take the Giant's advice and kill ourselves. Besides, a man who kills another can only commit murder on his body; but for a man to kill himself is to kill body and soul at one stroke.
And what is more, my brother — you talk about ease in the grave; but have you forgotten the hell that murderers certainly go to? Because "no murderer has eternal life."
And let us consider again that all the law is not in Giant Despair's hands. Others, as far as I can make out, have been taken by him just as we have, and have still escaped out of his hands. Who knows but that the God who made the world may cause Giant Despair to die? Or that at some point he may forget to lock us in? Or that he may shortly have another of his fits in front of us and lose the use of his limbs? And if that ever happens again, then for my part I am determined to summon up a man's courage and do everything I can to get out from under his hand. I was a fool not to have tried it before. But however that may be, my brother, let us be patient and put up with it a while. The time may come that will give us a happy release. Only let us not be our own murderers.
With these words Hopeful steadied his brother's mind for the moment; so they stayed together in the dark that day, in their sad and dismal condition.
Well, towards evening the Giant went down into the dungeon again to see whether his prisoners had taken his advice. But when he got there he found them alive — and truly, alive was all they were, because now, what with the lack of bread and water and the wounds they had taken when he beat them, they could do little more than breathe. But alive, as I say, he found them; at which he flew into a terrible rage and told them that since they had disobeyed his advice, it would go worse with them than if they had never been born.
At this they shook badly, and I think Christian fainted. But coming round a little, they took up their conversation again about the Giant's advice, and whether after all they had better take it. Now Christian again seemed to be for doing it, but Hopeful made his second reply, as follows.
Hopeful. My brother, said he — do you not remember how brave you have been before now? Apollyon could not crush you, nor could everything you heard and saw and felt in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. What hardship and terror and bewilderment you have already come through! And are you now nothing but fear?
You can see that I am in this dungeon with you, and I am a far weaker man by nature than you are. This Giant has wounded me as well as you, and has cut off the bread and water from my mouth too, and I am mourning in the dark alongside you. But let us practise a little more patience. Remember how you played the man at Vanity Fair, and were afraid neither of the chain, nor the cage, nor even of a bloody death. So let us — at the very least to avoid the shame that it does not become a Christian to be caught in — bear up patiently as well as we can.
Now night having come again, and the Giant and his wife being in bed, she asked him about the prisoners, and whether they had taken his advice. To which he answered: They are stubborn rogues; they would rather put up with every hardship than make an end of themselves.
Then she said: Take them into the castle yard tomorrow and show them the bones and skulls of the ones you have already finished off; and make them believe that before the week is out you will tear them to pieces as you did their fellows before them.
So when morning came, the Giant went to them again and took them into the castle yard, and showed them what his wife had told him to. These, said he, were pilgrims like you, once, and they trespassed on my grounds as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them to pieces, and within ten days I will do the same to you. Go on, get back down to your den. And with that he beat them the whole way there.
So they lay all through Saturday in a pitiful state, as before. Now when night came, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband the Giant had got to bed, they began to talk about their prisoners again; and the old Giant wondered aloud that he could bring them to an end neither by his blows nor by his advice. At which his wife answered: I am afraid, said she, that they are living in hope that somebody will come to rescue them, or that they have picklocks about them, and hope to escape by them.
And do you say so, my dear? said the Giant. Then I shall search them in the morning.
Well — on Saturday, about midnight, the prisoners began to pray, and kept on praying until almost daybreak.
Now a little before it was light, good Christian, like a man half astonished, burst out in this passionate speech: What a fool I am, said he, to lie in a stinking dungeon like this when I could just as well be walking free! I have a key in my coat called Promise, that will — I am certain of it — open any lock in Doubting Castle.
Then Hopeful said: That is good news, good brother. Pull it out and try it.
Then Christian pulled it out of his coat and began trying it on the dungeon door; and as he turned the key the bolt gave, and the door swung open easily, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outer door that leads into the castle yard, and with his key opened that door too. After that he went to the iron gate, because that had to be opened as well; and that lock went damnably hard, but the key did open it. Then they shoved the gate open to make their escape quickly — but as it opened, that gate made such a creaking that it woke Giant Despair, who got up in a hurry to chase his prisoners and felt his limbs give way under him, because his fits had taken him again, so that he could not go after them at all.
Then they went on and came to the King's highway, and so were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction.
Now when they had got back over the stile, they began to work out between themselves what they might do at that stile to stop those who came after them from falling into Giant Despair's hands. So they agreed to put up a pillar there, and to engrave on the side of it this sentence: "Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despises the King of the Celestial Country and seeks to destroy his holy pilgrims."
So a great many who came after read what was written there, and escaped the danger. When this was done, they sang as follows:
Off the road we went, and there we found what it is to walk on forbidden ground. And let those who come after us take care, in case their carelessness should land them where we were — as trespassers, and prisoners there, whose castle's Doubting and whose name's Despair.
Then they went on until they came to the Delectable Mountains, which belong to the Lord of that hill we spoke of before. So they went up into the mountains to look at the gardens and orchards, the vineyards and the springs of water; and there they drank and washed themselves, and ate freely from the vineyards.
Now on the tops of these mountains there were shepherds feeding their flocks, and they were standing by the roadside. So the Pilgrims went over to them; and leaning on their staffs, as tired pilgrims usually do when they stop to talk with anybody along the road, they asked: Whose Delectable Mountains are these? And whose are the sheep feeding on them?
Shepherd. These mountains are Immanuel's Land, and they are within sight of his city; and the sheep are his too, and he laid down his life for them.
Christian. Is this the road to the Celestial City?
Shepherd. You are exactly on your road.
Christian. How far is it from here?
Shepherd. Too far for anybody except those who will really get there.
Christian. Is the road safe or dangerous?
Shepherd. Safe for those it is meant to be safe for; but offenders shall fall on it.
Christian. Is there anything here to relieve pilgrims who are tired and faint on the road?
Shepherd. The Lord of these mountains has charged us not to be "forgetful to entertain strangers." So everything good about the place is at your service.
I saw too in my dream that when the Shepherds realized they were travellers, they put questions to them as well, which they answered as they had elsewhere: Where have you come from? And how did you get onto the road? And by what means have you kept to it so long? — because only a few of those who set out to come here ever show their faces on these mountains. But when the Shepherds heard their answers and were pleased with them, they looked at them very kindly and said: Welcome to the Delectable Mountains.
The Shepherds, I say — whose names were Knowledge, Experience, Watchful and Sincere — took them by the hand and led them to their tents, and had them share whatever was ready at the time. They said, moreover: We would like you to stay here a while, to get to know us, and to enjoy yourselves further with all the good of these Delectable Mountains. So the Pilgrims said they were content to stay; and they went to their rest that night, because it was very late.
Then I saw in my dream that in the morning the Shepherds called Christian and Hopeful to come and walk with them on the mountains. So they went out with them and walked a while, with a pleasant view on every side. Then the Shepherds said to one another: Shall we show these Pilgrims some wonders?
So when they had decided to do it, they took them first to the top of a hill called Error, which was very steep on the far side, and told them to look down to the bottom. So Christian and Hopeful looked down, and saw at the bottom a number of men smashed to pieces by a fall they had taken from the top.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
The Shepherds answered: Have you not heard of those who were led into error by listening to Hymenaeus and Philetus, on the matter of the faith of the resurrection of the body?
They answered: Yes.
Then the Shepherds said: Those you see lying smashed to pieces at the bottom of this mountain are the men themselves; and they have been left unburied to this day, as you see, as an example to others, to take care how they climb too high or come too near the edge of this mountain.
Then I saw that they took them to the top of another mountain, whose name is Caution, and told them to look into the distance. And when they did, they made out what they took to be several men walking up and down among the tombs that stood there; and they could tell the men were blind, because they kept stumbling over the tombs and could not find their way out from among them.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
The Shepherds answered: Did you not see, a little below these mountains, a stile leading into a meadow on the left-hand side of the road?
They answered: Yes.
Then the Shepherds said: From that stile there runs a path that leads straight to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair. And these men — pointing at the figures among the tombs — once came on pilgrimage as you are doing now, right up to that same stile. And because the proper road was rough at that spot, they chose to leave it and go into that meadow; and there they were taken by Giant Despair and thrown into Doubting Castle. And after they had been kept in the dungeon a while, he at last put out their eyes and led them out among those tombs, where he has left them to wander to this very day — so that the saying of the wise man might be fulfilled: "He who wanders out of the way of understanding shall remain in the congregation of the dead."
Then Christian and Hopeful looked at one another, with the tears bursting out of them, but said nothing at all to the Shepherds.
Then I saw in my dream that the Shepherds took them to another place, in a hollow, where there was a door in the side of a hill; and they opened the door and told them to look in. So they looked in, and saw that inside it was very dark and full of smoke. They also thought they could hear a rumbling noise there, like fire, and the cry of somebody being tormented; and they could smell the reek of brimstone.
Christian. Then Christian said: What does this mean?
The Shepherds told them: This is a side road to hell, a way that hypocrites go in by — people who sell their birthright, like Esau; who sell their master, like Judas; who blaspheme the Gospel, like Alexander; and who lie and dissemble, like Ananias and his wife Sapphira.
Then Hopeful said to the Shepherds: I gather that every one of these had the appearance of being on pilgrimage, just as we have now. Is that not so?
Shepherd. Yes — and kept it up a long time, too.
Hopeful. How far might they have got on their pilgrimage in their day, given that they were still thrown away so miserably?
Shepherd. Some further, and some not as far, as these mountains.
Then the Pilgrims said to one another: We shall need to cry out to the Strong One for strength.
Shepherd. Yes — and you will need to use it, when you have it, too.
By this time the Pilgrims wanted to go on, and the Shepherds wanted them to; so they walked on together towards the end of the mountains. Then the Shepherds said to one another: Let us show the Pilgrims the gates of the Celestial City from here, if they have the knack of looking through our telescope.
The Pilgrims gladly accepted the offer; so they took them to the top of a high hill called Clear, and gave them the glass to look through.
Then they tried to look; but the memory of that last thing the Shepherds had shown them made their hands shake, and because of that they could not hold the glass steady. Even so, they thought they saw something like the gate, and something of the glory of the place as well. Then they went away, and sang this song:
So by the Shepherds secrets are revealed which from all other men are kept concealed. Come to the Shepherds, then, if you would see things deep, things hidden, things of mystery.
When they were about to leave, one of the Shepherds gave them a written note about the road. Another told them to beware of the Flatterer. The third told them to take care that they did not fall asleep on the Enchanted Ground. And the fourth wished them godspeed.
So I woke up from my dream.
And I slept, and dreamed again, and saw the same two Pilgrims going down the mountains along the highway towards the city. Now a little below these mountains, on the left, lies the country of Conceit; and out of that country there comes into the road the Pilgrims were walking on a little crooked lane. So here they met a very brisk young man who had come out of that country, whose name was Ignorance. So Christian asked him what parts he came from, and where he was going.
Ignorance. Sir, I was born in the country lying over there, a little to the left, and I am going to the Celestial City.
Christian. But how do you expect to get in at the gate? You may find some difficulty there.
Ignorance. Just as other good people do, said he.
Christian. But what do you have to show at that gate that would get it opened to you?
Ignorance. I know my Lord's will, and I have lived a good life. I pay every man what I owe him. I pray, I fast, I pay tithes, I give to the poor, and I have left my own country for the place I am going to.
Christian. But you did not come in at the little gate at the head of this road. You came in by that crooked lane; and so I am afraid that, whatever you may think of yourself, when the day of reckoning comes it will be laid to your charge that you are a thief and a robber, instead of your being let into the city.
Ignorance. Gentlemen, you are complete strangers to me and I do not know you. Be content to follow the religion of your country, and I will follow the religion of mine. I hope everything will turn out well. And as for this gate you talk about, everybody knows it is a long way off from our country. I cannot think that anybody in our parts so much as knows the road to it — nor do they need to care whether they do or not, since we have, as you see, a fine pleasant green lane that comes down from our country and joins the road by the shortest way.
When Christian saw that the man was "wise in his own conceit," he said to Hopeful in a whisper: "There is more hope of a fool than of him." And he added: "When a fool walks along the road, his wisdom fails him, and he tells everybody he meets that he is a fool." What — shall we talk with him further, or get ahead of him for now and leave him to think over what he has heard already, and then stop for him again later, and see whether we can do him any good by degrees?
Then Hopeful said:
Let Ignorance a little while now muse on what's been said, and let him not refuse good counsel when it comes, lest he remain still ignorant of what's the greatest gain. God says that those who have no understanding, although he made them, he will not save.
Hopeful added: It is not good, I think, to tell him everything at once. Let us pass him by, if you like, and talk to him later, as much as he can take.
So they both went on, and Ignorance came along behind.
Now when they had got a little way past him, they came into a very dark lane, where they met a man whom seven devils had bound with seven strong ropes and were carrying back to the door they had seen in the side of the hill. Now good Christian began to tremble, and so did Hopeful his companion. Yet as the devils led the man away, Christian looked to see whether he knew him; and he thought it might be one Turn-away, who lived in the town of Apostasy. But he could not see his face properly, because he was hanging his head like a thief who has been caught. But once they were past, Hopeful looked after him and spotted a paper on his back with this written on it: "A loose-living believer, and a damnable apostate."
Then Christian said to his companion: Now I remember what I was told about something that happened to a good man near here. The man's name was Little-faith — a good man, and he lived in the town of Sincere. This was the thing.
At the entrance to this passage there comes down from Broad-way Gate a lane called Dead Man's Lane, so called because of the murders that are commonly done there. And this Little-faith, going on pilgrimage as we are now, happened to sit down there and fell asleep. Now at that very time there happened to come down the lane from Broad-way Gate three sturdy rogues, whose names were Faint-heart, Mistrust and Guilt — three brothers; and spotting Little-faith where he was, they came galloping up at speed.
Now the good man had just woken from his sleep and was getting up to go on with his journey. So they all came up to him and told him to stand, with threatening language. At this, Little-faith went as white as a cloud, and had the power neither to fight nor to run.
Then Faint-heart said: Hand over your purse. But when he was slow to do it, because he was unwilling to lose his money, Mistrust ran up to him and thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bag of silver. Then Little-faith cried out: Thieves! Thieves! At which Guilt, with a great club he had in his hand, struck Little-faith on the head, and with that blow felled him flat to the ground, where he lay bleeding like a man who would bleed to death.
All this while the thieves stood by. But at last, hearing that somebody was on the road and afraid it might be one Great-grace, who lives in the city of Good-confidence, they took to their heels and left this good man to fend for himself.
Now after a while Little-faith came round, and getting up, managed to scramble on his way. That was the story.
Hopeful. But did they take everything he had?
Christian. No. They never went through the place where his jewels were, so he kept those. But I was told the good man was much distressed by his loss, because the thieves got most of his spending money. What they did not get, as I said, were the jewels; and he had a little odd money left as well, but hardly enough to get him to the end of his journey. In fact, if I was not misinformed, he was forced to beg as he went, to keep himself alive, since he was not allowed to sell his jewels. But beg and do what he could, he went — as we say — with many a hungry belly for most of the rest of the way.
Hopeful. But is it not a wonder they did not get his certificate off him, the one he was to be admitted by at the Celestial Gate?
Christian. It is a wonder. But they did not get it — though he did not keep it from them by any cleverness of his own; because being terrified by their coming on him, he had neither the power nor the presence of mind to hide anything. So it was more by good Providence than by any effort of his that they missed that good thing.
Hopeful. But it must have been a comfort to him that they did not get that jewel from him.
Christian. It might have been a great comfort to him, if he had made the use of it he should have. But those who told me the story said he made very little use of it all the rest of the way, and that because of the shock of having his money taken. In fact he forgot it for a great part of the rest of his journey; and besides, whenever it did come into his mind and he began to take comfort from it, fresh thoughts of his loss would come over him again, and those thoughts would swallow up everything else.
Hopeful. Poor man. That must have been a great grief to him.
Christian. Grief! Yes, a grief indeed. Would it not have been so to any of us, if we had been treated as he was — robbed and wounded too, and in a strange place, as he was? It is a wonder he did not die of grief, poor heart. I was told that he scattered nearly the whole rest of the way with nothing but mournful and bitter complaints, telling everybody who caught up with him, or whom he caught up with, where he had been robbed and how; who it was that did it, and what he had lost; how he was wounded, and how he barely escaped with his life.
Hopeful. But it is a wonder his need did not drive him to sell or pawn some of his jewels, so that he could have had something to relieve himself with on his journey.
Christian. You talk like a man who still has the eggshell on his head to this very day. What should he pawn them for, or who should he sell them to? In that whole country where he was robbed his jewels were valued at nothing; nor did he want the kind of relief that could have been got there. Besides, if his jewels had been missing at the gate of the Celestial City, he would have been shut out of an inheritance there — and he knew that perfectly well; and that would have been worse to him than the appearance and the villainy of ten thousand thieves.
Hopeful. Why are you so sharp with me, my brother? Esau sold his birthright, and for a bowl of stew at that, and that birthright was his greatest jewel. And if he did, why might Little-faith not have done the same?
Christian. Esau did sell his birthright, certainly, and so do many others, and by doing it shut themselves out of the chief blessing — as that wretch did too. But you must draw a distinction between Esau and Little-faith, and between their situations.
Esau's birthright was a symbol; Little-faith's jewels were not. Esau's belly was his god; Little-faith's belly was not. Esau's lack was in his bodily appetite; Little-faith's was not. Besides, Esau could see no further than satisfying his appetites: "Look, I am at the point of death," said he, "and what good will this birthright do me?" But Little-faith, although it was his lot to have only a little faith, was kept by that little faith from such excesses, and was made to see his jewels and value them too highly to sell them as Esau sold his birthright.
You do not read anywhere that Esau had faith — not so much as a little. So it is no wonder that where the flesh alone rules, as it will in a man who has no faith to resist it, he sells his birthright and his soul and everything else, and that to the devil of hell; because it is with such men as it is with the ass in heat, that cannot be turned aside. When their minds are set on their appetites, they will have them whatever they cost.
But Little-faith was of another temper. His mind was on divine things; his living was on things that were spiritual, and from above. So what purpose would there be for a man of that temper to sell his jewels — even if there had been anybody who would have bought them — in order to fill his mind with empty things? Will a man pay a penny to fill his belly with hay? Or could you persuade a turtledove to live on carrion like a crow? Though faithless men can pawn or mortgage or sell what they have for the sake of their appetites, and themselves outright into the bargain, still, those who have faith — saving faith, though only a little of it — cannot do so. That, my brother, is where you are mistaken.
Hopeful. I admit it. But your severe remark had almost made me angry.
Christian. Why, I only compared you to some of the brisker sort of birds, that will go running to and fro on untrodden paths with the shell still on their heads. But let that pass, and think about the matter we were discussing, and all will be well between you and me.
Hopeful. But, Christian — these three fellows, I am convinced in my heart, are nothing but a pack of cowards. Would they have run as they did, do you think, at the noise of one man coming along the road? Why did Little-faith not summon up more courage? It seems to me he could have stood one round with them, and given in when there was no help for it.
Christian. That they are cowards, many have said; but few have found it so when they were tried. As for great courage, Little-faith had none. And I can see, my brother, that if you had been the man concerned, you are only for one round and then giving in. And truly, since this is the height of your spirit now, while they are at a distance from us, if they were to appear to you as they did to him they might give you second thoughts.
But consider again: they are only hired thieves. They serve under the king of the bottomless pit, who will come to their aid himself if he has to, and his voice is like the roaring of a lion. I have been in the same fight myself as Little-faith was, and I found it a terrible thing. These three villains set on me; and when I began, like a Christian, to resist, they gave one call and in came their master. I would have given my life for a penny, as the saying goes — except that, as God would have it, I was clothed in tested armour. And yes, even so equipped, I found it hard work to acquit myself like a man. No man can tell what waits for us in that combat but the man who has been in the battle himself.
Hopeful. Well — but they ran, you see, when they only supposed that Great-grace was on the road.
Christian. True. They have often run, both they and their master, when Great-grace has merely appeared; and no wonder, because he is the King's Champion. But I imagine you will allow some difference between Little-faith and the King's Champion. Not all the King's subjects are his champions, nor can they, when they are tested, do the feats of war that he can. Is it reasonable to think that a little child could handle Goliath as David did? Or that there should be the strength of an ox in a wren? Some are strong, some are weak; some have great faith and some have little. This man was one of the weak ones, and so he got the worst of it.
Hopeful. I wish it had been Great-grace, for their sakes.
Christian. If it had been, he might have had his hands full. Because I must tell you that although Great-grace is excellent with his weapons, and can do well enough with them so long as he keeps them at sword's point, still, if they get inside his guard — even Faint-heart, or Mistrust, or the other one — it will go hard but they will tip his heels up. And when a man is down, you know, what can he do?
Anybody who looks closely at Great-grace's face will see scars and cuts there that easily prove what I am saying. Yes, and I once heard that he said, and that when he was in the fight, "We despaired even of life." How these sturdy rogues and their fellows made David groan and mourn and roar! And Heman and Hezekiah too, though they were champions in their day, were forced to bestir themselves when these attacked them — and even so, they had their coats soundly beaten by them. Peter once wanted to go and try what he could do; and though some say of him that he is the prince of the apostles, they handled him so that in the end they made him afraid of a mere serving girl.
Besides, their king is at their whistle. He is never out of earshot; and if at any time they get the worst of it, he comes in to help them if he possibly can. And of him it is said: "The sword of the one who attacks him cannot hold, nor the spear, the dart, nor the coat of mail. He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him run; slingstones are turned to stubble against him. Darts are counted as stubble; he laughs at the shaking of a spear."
What can a man do in a case like this? It is true that if a man could have Job's horse at every turn, and had the skill and the courage to ride him, he might do remarkable things: "for his neck is clothed with thunder, and he will not be afraid of the grasshopper; the glory of his snorting is terrible; he paws in the valley and rejoices in his strength; he goes out to meet the armed men. He mocks at fear and is not frightened, and he does not turn back from the sword. The quiver rattles against him, and the glittering spear and the shield. He swallows the ground with fierceness and rage, and he will not believe it is the sound of the trumpet. Among the trumpets he says, Ha, ha! And he smells the battle far off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting."
But for foot-soldiers like you and me, let us never wish to meet an enemy, nor boast as though we could do better when we hear that others have been worn down, nor be pleased with the thought of our own manhood. Because men like that generally come off worst when they are tried. Look at Peter, whom I mentioned before. He would swagger — yes, he would; he would do better, so his empty mind prompted him to say, and stand up for his Master more than anybody else. But who was ever so beaten and so run down by these villains as he was?
So when we hear that such robberies are done on the King's highway, there are two things it is right for us to do.
First, to go out armed, and to be sure to take a shield with us. Because it was for want of a shield that the man who struck so hard at Leviathan could not make him yield; and indeed, if that is missing, he is not afraid of us at all. That is why the one with the knowledge has said, "Above all, taking the shield of faith, with which you shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked."
Second, it is good as well that we ask the King for an escort — yes, that he will go with us himself. This is what made David rejoice when he was in the Valley of the Shadow of Death; and Moses would rather have died where he stood than go one step without his God. My brother, if he will only come along with us, what need have we to be afraid of ten thousand who set themselves against us? But without him, the proud helpers "fall among the slain."
I for my part have been in the fight before now; and though, by the goodness of the one who is best, I am alive, as you see, still I cannot boast about my manhood. I shall be glad if I meet with no more shocks like that one — though I am afraid we are not out of all danger yet. However, since the lion and the bear have not devoured me so far, I hope God will deliver us from the next uncircumcised Philistine too.
Then Christian sang:
Poor Little-faith! Have you been among the thieves? Were you robbed? Remember this, whoever believes and gets more faith, shall then a victor be over ten thousand — else scarce over three.
So they went on, and Ignorance followed. Then they went on until they came to a place where they saw a road come into their road, and it seemed to run just as straight as the one they were meant to take; and here they did not know which of the two to take, because both seemed to lie straight ahead. So they stood still to consider.
And as they were thinking about the road, a figure came to them, black of body but covered in a very light robe, and asked them why they were standing there. They answered that they were going to the Celestial City, but did not know which of these roads to take.
Follow me, said the figure — that is where I am going too.
So they followed him along the road that had just joined theirs, which by degrees turned, and turned them so far away from the city they wanted to reach that in a short time their faces were pointing away from it. And still they followed him. But before long, before they realized it, he had led them both inside the compass of a net, in which they were so tangled that they did not know what to do; and with that the white robe fell off the black figure's back. Then they saw where they were. So there they lay, crying for some time, because they could not get themselves out.
Christian. Then Christian said to his companion: Now I see that I have gone wrong. Did the Shepherds not tell us to beware of the flatterers? It is as the wise man says, and we have found it out today: "A man who flatters his neighbour spreads a net for his feet."
Hopeful. They also gave us a written note of directions about the road, to help us find it more surely; but we have forgotten to read that as well, and have not kept ourselves out of the paths of the destroyer. David was wiser than we are here, because he says, "Concerning the works of men, by the word of your lips I have kept myself from the paths of the destroyer."
So they lay there lamenting themselves in the net.
At last they spotted a Shining One coming towards them, with a whip of fine cord in his hand. When he had come to the place where they were, he asked them where they had come from and what they were doing there. They told him they were poor pilgrims going to Zion, but had been led off their road by a black figure dressed in white, who told us, they said, to follow him, because he was going there too.
Then the one with the whip said: It is Flatterer, a false apostle, who has transformed himself into an angel of light.
So he tore the net open and let the men out. Then he said to them: Follow me, and I will set you on your road again. So he led them back to the road they had left in order to follow the Flatterer.
Then he asked them: Where did you sleep last night? They said: With the Shepherds, on the Delectable Mountains. He asked them then whether they had not had a note of directions for the road from those Shepherds. They answered: Yes.
But did you, said he, when you came to a standstill, pull out your note and read it? They answered: No. He asked them why. They said they had forgotten.
He asked, further, whether the Shepherds had not told them to beware of the Flatterer. They answered: Yes — but we did not imagine, they said, that this fine-spoken man was he.
Then I saw in my dream that he ordered them to lie down; and when they did, he punished them severely, to teach them the good road they ought to walk in. And as he punished them he said, "As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten; be zealous, therefore, and repent."
When this was done, he told them to go on their way and pay good attention to the Shepherds' other directions. So they thanked him for all his kindness, and went quietly along the right road, singing:
Come over here, you that walk along the way, and see how pilgrims fare who go astray! They are caught in an entangling net, because good counsel they too lightly did forget. True, they were rescued — but you see as well, they're whipped besides. Let that your warning be.
Now after a while they saw, a long way off, somebody coming quietly and alone along the highway to meet them. Then Christian said to his companion: There is a man over there with his back towards Zion, and he is coming to meet us.
Hopeful. I see him. Let us look out for ourselves now, in case he turns out to be a flatterer too.
So he came nearer and nearer, and at last came up to them. His name was Atheist, and he asked them where they were going.
Christian. We are going to Mount Zion.
Then Atheist burst into a great fit of laughter.
Christian. What is the meaning of your laughing?
Atheist. I am laughing to see what ignorant people you are, to take on such a wearisome journey — and all you are likely to get for your pains is the walking.
Christian. Why, man — do you think we shall not be received?
Atheist. Received! There is no such place as you are dreaming of anywhere in this world.
Christian. But there is in the world to come.
Atheist. When I was at home in my own country I heard what you are saying now; and from hearing it I went out to see, and I have been looking for this city these twenty years — and I find no more of it than I did the first day I set out.
Christian. We have both heard, and we believe, that there is such a place to be found.
Atheist. If I had not believed it when I was at home, I would not have come this far to look. But finding nothing — and I should have found it, if there had been such a place, because I have gone further to look for it than you have — I am going back again, and I mean to refresh myself with the things I threw away then, for the hope of something that I now see does not exist.
Christian. Then Christian said to Hopeful his companion: Is what this man says true?
Hopeful. Take care — he is one of the flatterers. Remember what it has already cost us once for listening to that kind of fellow. What, no Mount Zion? Did we not see the gate of the city from the Delectable Mountains? And besides, are we not to walk by faith now? Let us go on, said Hopeful, in case the man with the whip catches up with us again.
You should have been the one teaching me that lesson, and I will whisper it in your ear instead: "Stop, my son, listening to instruction that will cause you to stray from the words of knowledge." I say, my brother, stop listening to him, and let us "believe to the saving of the soul."
Christian. My brother, I did not put the question to you because I doubted the truth of what we believe myself, but to test you and draw out from you some fruit of the honesty of your heart. As for this man, I know he is blinded by the god of this world. Let us go on, you and I, knowing that we have belief in the truth, "and no lie is of the truth."
Hopeful. Now I rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.
So they turned away from the man; and he, laughing at them, went on his way.
Then I saw in my dream that they went on until they came into a certain country whose air naturally makes a person drowsy, if he comes into it as a stranger. And here Hopeful began to get very dull and heavy with sleep; so he said to Christian: I am beginning to get so drowsy now that I can hardly keep my eyes open. Let us lie down here and take a nap.
Christian. Not on any account, said the other — in case we fall asleep and never wake up again.
Hopeful. Why, my brother? Sleep is sweet to a working man. We might be refreshed if we took a nap.
Christian. Do you not remember that one of the Shepherds told us to beware of the Enchanted Ground? What he meant by that was that we should beware of sleeping. "So let us not sleep, as others do, but let us watch and be sober."
Hopeful. I admit I was in the wrong. And if I had been here alone, I would have run the risk of death by sleeping. I see the truth of what the wise man says: "Two are better than one." Your company has been a mercy to me all this way, and you shall have a good reward for your trouble.
Christian. Now then, said Christian, to keep off drowsiness in this place, let us get into some good conversation.
Hopeful. With all my heart, said the other.
Christian. Where shall we begin?
Hopeful. Where God began with us. But you begin, if you please.
Christian. First I will sing you this song:
When saints grow sleepy, let them come this way and hear how these two pilgrims talk and pray. Yes, let them learn from them, by any means, to hold their drowsy, slumbering eyelids open. The fellowship of saints, if managed well, will keep them wide awake, in spite of hell.
Christian. Then Christian began, and said: I will ask you a question. How did you first come to think of doing what you are doing now?
Hopeful. Do you mean, how did I first come to look after the good of my soul?
Christian. Yes, that is my meaning.
Hopeful. I carried on a long while enjoying the things that were seen and sold at our fair — things which I believe now, if I had stayed with them, would have drowned me in ruin and destruction.
Christian. What things were they?
Hopeful. All the treasures and riches of the world. I also took a great deal of pleasure in wild living, revelling, drinking, swearing, lying, impurity, breaking the Sabbath, and anything else that tends to destroy the soul. But I found at last, by hearing and thinking about divine things — which in fact I heard from you, and from beloved Faithful, who was put to death for his faith and his good living at Vanity Fair — that "the end of these things is death," and that it is because of them that "the wrath of God comes upon the children of disobedience."
Christian. And did you fall under the power of that conviction straight away?
Hopeful. No. I was not willing at first to know the evil of sin, or the damnation that follows from committing it. When my mind first began to be shaken by the Word, I tried to shut my eyes against its light.
Christian. But what was the reason you behaved like that towards the first workings of God's blessed Spirit on you?
Hopeful. The reasons were these. First, I did not know this was the work of God in me. It never occurred to me that God begins the conversion of a sinner by waking him up about his sin. Second, sin was still very sweet to my flesh, and I was unwilling to leave it. Third, I could not see how to part with my old companions; their company and the things they did were too attractive to me. Fourth, the hours when these convictions were on me were such troublesome, heart-terrifying hours that I could not bear them — could not even bear the memory of them on my heart.
Christian. Then it seems you sometimes got rid of your trouble?
Hopeful. Yes, truly. But it would come back into my mind again, and then I would be as bad as before — worse, in fact.
Christian. And what was it that brought your sins back to mind?
Hopeful. A great many things. If I so much as met a good man in the street; or if I heard anybody reading in the Bible; or if my head started to ache; or if I was told that some of my neighbours were sick; or if I heard the bell tolling for somebody who had died; or if I thought about dying myself; or if I heard that somebody else had died suddenly — but above all, when I thought about myself, and that I must very soon come to judgment.
Christian. And could you at any time get the guilt of sin off you easily, when it came on you by any of these ways?
Hopeful. No, not I — because then they would take a faster hold on my conscience. And then, if I so much as thought about going back to sin, though my mind was set against it, it would be a double torment to me.
Christian. And what did you do then?
Hopeful. I thought I would have to try to mend my life; because otherwise, I thought, I am certain to be damned.
Christian. And did you try to mend it?
Hopeful. Yes. I ran not only from my sins but from sinful company as well, and took to religious duties — praying, reading, weeping over sin, telling my neighbours the truth, and so on. I did these things and a great many more, too many to go into here.
Christian. And did you think yourself in a good way then?
Hopeful. Yes, for a while. But at last my trouble came tumbling down on me again, and that right on top of all my reforming.
Christian. How did that come about, since you were reformed by then?
Hopeful. There were several things that brought it on me, especially sayings like these: "All our righteousness is like filthy rags." "By the works of the law shall no flesh be justified." "When you have done all those things, say, We are unprofitable" — and many more of the same sort.
From these I began to reason with myself like this: If all my righteousness is filthy rags; if by keeping the law nobody can be justified; and if, when we have done everything, we are still unprofitable, then it is nothing but folly to think of getting to heaven by the law.
I thought further along these lines: if a man runs up a hundred pounds of debt at the shopkeeper's, and after that pays for everything he takes, still, if the old debt stands there in the book uncrossed, the shopkeeper can sue him for it and have him thrown into prison until he pays it.
Christian. Well, and how did you apply that to yourself?
Hopeful. Why, I thought this to myself. By my sins I have run a long way into God's book, and my reforming now will not pay off that score. So under all my present improvements I still had to think: how am I to be freed from the damnation I have brought myself into danger of by everything I did before?
Christian. A very good application. But please go on.
Hopeful. Another thing that has troubled me, even since my recent improvements, is this: if I look closely at the best of what I do now, I still see sin — new sin — mixing itself in with the best of what I do. So that now I am forced to conclude that in spite of all my old foolish opinions of myself and of my religious duties, I have committed enough sin in a single duty to send me to hell, even if my earlier life had been faultless.
Christian. And what did you do then?
Hopeful. Do! I could not tell what to do, until I confided in Faithful — because he and I knew each other well. And he told me that unless I could get hold of the righteousness of a man who had never sinned, then neither my own righteousness nor all the righteousness in the world could save me.
Christian. And did you think he was telling the truth?
Hopeful. If he had told me that while I was pleased and satisfied with my own reforming, I would have called him a fool for his trouble. But now, since I can see my own weakness and the sin that sticks to my best performance, I have been forced round to his opinion.
Christian. But when he first suggested it to you, did you think there was such a man to be found — one of whom it could justly be said that he had never committed a sin?
Hopeful. I have to admit the words sounded strange at first; but after a little more talk and time in his company, I was fully convinced of it.
Christian. And did you ask him who this man was, and how you were to be justified by him?
Hopeful. Yes. And he told me it was the Lord Jesus, who lives at the right hand of the Most High. And this, he said, is how you must be justified by him: by trusting in what he did in his own person in the days of his flesh, and in what he suffered when he hung on the tree.
I asked him further how that man's righteousness could have the power to justify somebody else before God. And he told me that he was the mighty God, and did what he did, and died his death as well, not for himself but for me — and that his doings, and the worth of them, would be credited to me if I believed in him.
Christian. And what did you do then?
Hopeful. I raised my objections against believing, because I thought he was not willing to save me.
Christian. And what did Faithful say to that?
Hopeful. He told me to go to him and see. Then I said that would be presumption; but he said no, because I had been invited to come. Then he gave me a book of Jesus' own composing, to encourage me to come more freely; and he said of that book that every jot and tittle in it stood firmer than heaven and earth.
Then I asked him what I was to do when I came; and he told me I must beg on my knees, with all my heart and soul, for the Father to reveal him to me. Then I asked him further how I was to make my petition to him. And he said: Go, and you will find him on a mercy seat, where he sits all the year round to give pardon and forgiveness to those who come.
I told him I did not know what to say when I came. And he told me to say something to this effect: God be merciful to me, a sinner, and make me know and believe in Jesus Christ. Because I can see that if his righteousness had not existed, or if I have no faith in that righteousness, I am utterly cast away. Lord, I have heard that you are a merciful God, and that you have appointed that your Son Jesus Christ should be the Saviour of the world; and further, that you are willing to give him to such a poor sinner as I am — and I am a sinner indeed. Lord, take this opportunity, then, and magnify your grace in the salvation of my soul, through your Son Jesus Christ. Amen.
Christian. And did you do as you were told?
Hopeful. Yes — over and over and over.
Christian. And did the Father reveal his Son to you?
Hopeful. Not the first time, nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth, nor the fifth — no, nor the sixth time either.
Christian. What did you do then?
Hopeful. What! Why, I could not tell what to do.
Christian. Did you not think of leaving off praying?
Hopeful. Yes — two hundred times over.
Christian. And what was the reason you did not?
Hopeful. I believed that what I had been told was true — that without the righteousness of this Christ, all the world could not save me. And so I thought to myself: if I leave off, I die; and I can only die at the throne of grace. And along with that, this came into my mind: "Though it delays, wait for it, because it will surely come; it will not delay." So I kept on praying until the Father showed me his Son.
Christian. And how was he revealed to you?
Hopeful. I did not see him with my bodily eyes, but with the eyes of my understanding; and this is how it happened. One day I was very sad — sadder, I think, than at any other time in my life — and this sadness came from a fresh sight of the size and the vileness of my sins. And as I was expecting nothing but hell and the everlasting damnation of my soul, suddenly, as I thought, I saw the Lord Jesus look down from heaven at me and say, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you shall be saved."
But I answered: Lord, I am a great sinner — a very great sinner. And he answered, "My grace is sufficient for you."
Then I said: But, Lord, what is believing? And then I saw from that saying, "He that comes to me shall never hunger, and he that believes on me shall never thirst," that believing and coming were one and the same thing; and that whoever came — that is, whoever ran out in his heart and his affections after salvation by Christ — really did believe in Christ.
Then the tears came into my eyes, and I asked further: But, Lord, may such a great sinner as I am really be accepted by you and saved by you? And I heard him say, "And the one who comes to me I will in no way cast out."
Then I said: But how, Lord, must I think of you as I come to you, so that my faith may be placed on you rightly? Then he said, "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." "He is the end of the law for righteousness to everyone who believes." "He died for our sins and rose again for our justification." "He loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood." "He is the mediator between God and us." "He lives for ever to intercede for us."
From all of which I gathered that I must look for righteousness in his person, and for the settling of my sins by his blood; and that what he did in obedience to his Father's law, and in submitting to its penalty, was not for himself but for whoever will accept it for his own salvation and be grateful for it. And now my heart was full of joy, my eyes full of tears, and my whole affection running over with love for the name and the people and the ways of Jesus Christ.
Christian. This was a revelation of Christ to your soul indeed. But tell me particularly what effect it had on your spirit.
Hopeful. It made me see that all the world, for all the righteousness in it, is in a state of condemnation. It made me see that God the Father, though he is just, can justly justify the sinner who comes to him. It made me deeply ashamed of the vileness of my former life, and overwhelmed me with the sense of my own ignorance; because no thought had ever come into my heart before that showed me the beauty of Jesus Christ like that. It made me love a holy life, and long to do something for the honour and glory of the name of the Lord Jesus. Yes — I thought that if I had a thousand gallons of blood in my body now, I could spill every drop of it for the sake of the Lord Jesus.
Then I saw in my dream that Hopeful looked back and saw Ignorance, whom they had left behind, coming after them. Look, he said to Christian, how far back that youngster is loitering.
Christian. Yes, yes, I see him. He has no use for our company.
Hopeful. But I should have thought it would have done him no harm to have kept pace with us so far.
Christian. That is true; but I warrant you he thinks otherwise.
Hopeful. I think he does. But even so, let us wait for him.
So they did. Then Christian said to him: Come on, man — why are you hanging back so far?
Ignorance. I take my pleasure in walking alone — a great deal more than in company, unless I happen to like it better.
Then Christian said quietly to Hopeful: Did I not tell you he had no use for our company? But even so, said he, come up, and let us talk the time away in this lonely place.
Then, turning his speech to Ignorance, he said: Come — how are you? How do things stand between God and your soul now?
Ignorance. Well, I hope. Because I am always full of good impulses that come into my mind and comfort me as I walk.
Christian. What good impulses? Tell us, please.
Ignorance. Why, I think about God and heaven.
Christian. So do the devils and the damned souls.
Ignorance. But I think about them and I want them.
Christian. So do many people who are never likely to get there. "The soul of the sluggard desires, and has nothing."
Ignorance. But I think about them, and I leave everything for them.
Christian. That I doubt. Because leaving everything is a hard business — harder than most people realize. But why, or on what grounds, are you persuaded that you have left everything for God and heaven?
Ignorance. My heart tells me so.
Christian. The wise man says, "He that trusts his own heart is a fool."
Ignorance. That is said about an evil heart, but mine is a good one.
Christian. But how do you prove that?
Ignorance. It comforts me with hopes of heaven.
Christian. That may be through its own deceitfulness; because a man's heart can supply him with comfort in hopes of a thing he has no ground at all to hope for.
Ignorance. But my heart and my life agree together, and so my hope is well grounded.
Christian. Who told you your heart and your life agree together?
Ignorance. My heart tells me so.
Christian. Ask my friend whether I am a thief! Your heart tells you so! Unless the Word of God bears witness in this matter, no other testimony is worth anything.
Ignorance. But is it not a good heart that has good thoughts? And is that not a good life that goes according to God's commandments?
Christian. Yes, that is a good heart that has good thoughts, and that is a good life that goes according to God's commandments. But it is one thing to have these, and quite another only to think you have them.
Ignorance. Tell me, then — what do you count as good thoughts, and a life according to God's commandments?
Christian. There are good thoughts of various kinds: some about ourselves, some about God, some about Christ, and some about other things.
Ignorance. What are good thoughts about ourselves?
Christian. Those that agree with the Word of God.
Ignorance. And when do our thoughts about ourselves agree with the Word of God?
Christian. When we pass the same judgment on ourselves that the Word passes. To explain myself: the Word of God says of people in their natural condition, "There is none righteous; there is none that does good." It also says that "every imagination of the heart of man is only evil, and that continually." And again, "The imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth." Now when we think this about ourselves, and feel it, then our thoughts are good ones, because they agree with the Word of God.
Ignorance. I will never believe that my heart is as bad as that.
Christian. Then you have never had one good thought about yourself in your life. But let me go on. As the Word passes judgment on our hearts, so it passes judgment on our ways; and when our thoughts about our hearts and our ways agree with the judgment the Word gives on both, then both are good, because they agree with it.
Ignorance. Explain what you mean.
Christian. Why, the Word of God says that man's ways are crooked ways — not good, but twisted. It says they are naturally off the good road, and that they have never known it. Now when a man thinks this about his own ways — and I mean when he thinks it with real feeling, and with humbling of heart — then he has good thoughts about his own ways, because his thoughts now agree with the judgment of the Word of God.
Ignorance. And what are good thoughts about God?
Christian. Just as I said about ourselves: when our thoughts about God agree with what the Word says about him. And that means when we think about his being and his attributes as the Word has taught us, which I cannot go into at length now. But to speak of him with reference to ourselves: we have right thoughts of God when we think that he knows us better than we know ourselves, and can see sin in us when and where we can see none in ourselves; when we think that he knows our innermost thoughts, and that our heart, with all its depths, is always open to his eyes; and also when we think that all our righteousness stinks in his nostrils, and that he cannot therefore bear to see us stand in front of him with any confidence, even in the very best of what we do.
Ignorance. Do you think I am such a fool as to think God can see no further than I can? Or that I would come to God on the strength of the best of what I do?
Christian. Why, how do you think about this, then?
Ignorance. Why, to be brief — I think I must believe in Christ for justification.
Christian. What! You think you must believe in Christ when you cannot see that you need him! You see neither the corruption you were born with nor the sins you have actually committed; you have such an opinion of yourself and of what you do as plainly shows you to be a man who never saw any necessity for Christ's personal righteousness to justify him before God. How, then, can you say, I believe in Christ?
Ignorance. I believe well enough for all that.
Christian. And how do you believe?
Ignorance. I believe that Christ died for sinners, and that I shall be justified before God from the curse through his gracious acceptance of my obedience to his law. Or to put it another way: Christ makes my religious duties acceptable to his Father by virtue of his merits, and so I shall be justified.
Christian. Let me answer this confession of your faith.
First, you believe with an imaginary faith; because this faith is nowhere described in the Word.
Second, you believe with a false faith; because it takes justification away from the personal righteousness of Christ and applies it to your own.
Third, this faith does not make Christ the justifier of your person, but only of your actions — and of your person for the sake of your actions, which is false.
Fourth, therefore this faith is deceitful, and will leave you under wrath on the day of God Almighty. Because true justifying faith puts the soul, feeling its lost condition under the law, to flying for refuge to Christ's righteousness — and that righteousness of his is not some act of grace by which he makes your obedience acceptable to God for justification, but his own personal obedience to the law, doing and suffering for us what the law required of us. That righteousness, I say, is what true faith accepts; and the soul, sheltered under the skirt of it and presented by it as spotless before God, is accepted and acquitted from condemnation.
Ignorance. What! Would you have us trust to what Christ has done in his own person, outside us altogether? This notion would loosen the reins on our appetites and let us live exactly as we please. Because what does it matter how we live, if we can be justified by Christ's personal righteousness from everything, as soon as we believe it?
Christian. Ignorance is your name, and as your name is, so are you — and this very answer of yours proves what I say. You are ignorant of what justifying righteousness is, and just as ignorant of how to secure your soul from the heavy wrath of God through faith in it. Yes, and you are ignorant too of the true effects of saving faith in this righteousness of Christ, which are to bend and win the heart over to God in Christ, to love his name, his Word, his ways and his people — and not what you ignorantly imagine.
Hopeful. Ask him whether he ever had Christ revealed to him from heaven.
Ignorance. What! You are a man for revelations, are you? I believe that everything you and all the rest of you say on that subject is nothing but the product of disordered brains.
Hopeful. Why, man! Christ is so hidden in God from the natural understanding of the flesh that no man can know him savingly unless God the Father reveals him.
Ignorance. That is your faith, but not mine; and yet mine is as good as yours, I have no doubt, even though I do not have as many fancies in my head as you do.
Christian. Allow me to put in a word. You ought not to speak so lightly about this matter. Because I will boldly state, exactly as my good companion has done, that no man can know Jesus Christ except by the revelation of the Father. Yes, and the faith too, by which the soul lays hold of Christ, must — if it is the right kind — be worked in us by the exceeding greatness of his mighty power; and the working of that faith, I can see, poor Ignorance, is a thing you know nothing about. Wake up, then; see your own wretchedness, and run to the Lord Jesus. And by his righteousness, which is the righteousness of God, since he himself is God, you will be delivered from condemnation.
Ignorance. You go so fast that I cannot keep up with you. You go on ahead; I must stay behind a while.
Then they said:
Well, Ignorance, will you go on being a fool, and slight good counsel, ten times given you? And if you still refuse it, you will know before too long the evil of doing so. Remember, man, in time; stoop, do not fear. Good counsel taken well will save; so hear. But if you slight it still, then you will be the loser, Ignorance — I promise you.
Then Christian turned to his companion.
Christian. Well, come along, my good Hopeful. I can see that you and I are going to walk by ourselves again.
So I saw in my dream that they went on at a good pace ahead, and Ignorance came shambling after. Then Christian said to his companion: I feel very sorry for this poor man. It will certainly go badly with him in the end.
Hopeful. There are plenty in our town in the same condition — whole families, yes, whole streets of them, and pilgrims among them too. And if there are so many in our parts, how many do you think there must be in the place where he was born?
Christian. Indeed, the Word says, "He has blinded their eyes, so that they should not see." But now that we are on our own — what do you make of such men? Do you think they never have convictions of sin, and consequently fears that their situation is dangerous?
Hopeful. No — you answer that question yourself; you are the older man.
Christian. Then I say that sometimes, as I think, they may. But being naturally ignorant, they do not understand that convictions like that are for their good; and so they desperately try to stifle them, and go on presumptuously flattering themselves in the way their own hearts want to go.
Hopeful. I do believe, as you say, that fear does men a great deal of good, and helps to set them right at the beginning of their pilgrimage.
Christian. Without any doubt it does, if it is the right kind. Because the Word says so: "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom."
Hopeful. How would you describe right fear?
Christian. True or right fear can be recognized by three things.
First, by where it comes from: it is caused by saving convictions about sin.
Second, it drives the soul to take a fast hold of Christ for salvation.
Third, it produces and keeps up in the soul a great reverence for God, his Word and his ways — keeping it tender, and making it afraid to turn away from them, to the right hand or the left, to anything that might dishonour God, break its peace, grieve the Spirit or give the enemy something to sneer about.
Hopeful. Well said. I believe you have spoken the truth. Are we nearly past the Enchanted Ground now?
Christian. Why, are you tired of this conversation?
Hopeful. No, truly — I only wanted to know where we are.
Christian. We have not above two miles more to go on it. But let us come back to our subject. Now the ignorant do not know that convictions of the kind that put them in fear are for their good, and so they try to stifle them.
Hopeful. How do they try to stifle them?
Christian. First, they think those fears are worked in them by the devil, though in fact they are worked by God; and thinking so, they resist them as things that tend directly to their own ruin.
Second, they also think these fears tend to spoil their faith — when, poor men, alas for them, they have no faith at all. And so they harden their hearts against them.
Third, they take it for granted that they ought not to be afraid, and so, in spite of the fears, they grow presumptuously confident.
Fourth, they see that these fears tend to take away their pitiful old self-made holiness, and so they resist them with all their might.
Hopeful. I know something of this myself, because before I knew myself it was just so with me.
Christian. Well, let us leave our neighbour Ignorance to himself for now, and take up another useful question.
Hopeful. With all my heart — but you must still start it.
Christian. Well then: did you not know, about ten years ago, a man called Temporary in your parts, who was very forward in religion at the time?
Hopeful. Know him! Yes. He lived in Graceless, a town about two miles from Honesty, and he lived next door to a man called Turnback.
Christian. That is right; he lived under the same roof with him. Well, that man was much awakened once. I believe that then he had some sight of his sins and of the wages that were owing for them.
Hopeful. I am of your mind, because my house was not more than three miles from his, and he would often come to me, and with a great many tears. Truly I pitied the man, and was not altogether without hope for him. But one can see that not everybody who cries, Lord, Lord, is in earnest.
Christian. He told me once that he had decided to go on pilgrimage, as we are doing now. But all of a sudden he got to know a man called Save-self, and after that he became a stranger to me.
Hopeful. Now that we are talking about him, let us look a little into the reason for the sudden backsliding of him and others like him.
Christian. It may be very useful. But you begin.
Hopeful. Well then — in my judgment there are four reasons for it.
First, although the consciences of such men are woken up, their minds are not changed. So when the power of guilt wears off, the thing that provoked them to be religious stops, and they naturally turn back to their own course again. It is the same as we see with a dog that is sick from something it has eaten: as long as the sickness lasts it vomits and brings everything up — not that it does this out of any free choice, if we may speak of a dog having a choice, but because its stomach is upset. But now, when its sickness is over and its stomach eased, its appetite not being at all turned away from its vomit, it comes round and licks the whole lot up again. And so what is written is true: "The dog is turned to his own vomit again." So, I say, being hot for heaven only by virtue of the sense and fear of the torments of hell, then as their sense of hell and their fear of damnation chills and cools, so their desire for heaven and salvation cools too. And so it comes about that when their guilt and fear is gone, their desire for heaven and happiness dies, and they go back to their old course.
Second, another reason is that they have slavish fears that get the better of them. I am speaking now of the fears they have of other people, because "the fear of man brings a snare." So although they seem to be hot for heaven as long as the flames of hell are about their ears, still, when that terror has passed off a little, they fall to having second thoughts — namely, that it is a good thing to be prudent, and not to run the risk of losing everything for they know not what, or at the very least of bringing unavoidable and unnecessary trouble on themselves. And so they fall in with the world again.
Third, the shame that goes with religion lies in their way like a block. They are proud and haughty, and in their eyes religion is a low and contemptible thing. So when they have lost their sense of hell and of the wrath to come, they go back to their old course.
Fourth, guilt, and thinking about terrifying things, are painful to them. They do not like to see their misery before they get into it — though perhaps if they looked at it first, and if they could bring themselves to like the sight, it might make them run where the righteous run and are safe. But because, as I said before, they positively avoid all thought of guilt and terror, therefore once they are rid of their awakenings about the terrors and wrath of God, they gladly harden their hearts, and choose the sort of paths that will harden them more and more.
Christian. You are near the heart of it. Because the bottom of the whole thing is the want of a change in their mind and their will. And so they are just like a criminal standing in front of the judge: he quakes and trembles and seems to repent most heartily, but the bottom of it all is the fear of the rope, not any hatred of the offence. And that is obvious, because let this man have his freedom and he will still be a thief, and a rogue still — whereas if his mind had been changed he would be another man.
Hopeful. Now I have shown you the reasons for their going back; you show me the way it happens.
Christian. So I will, gladly.
First, they draw their thoughts off, as far as they can, from any remembrance of God, of death and of the judgment to come.
Second, then they cast off their private duties by degrees — private prayer, curbing their appetites, keeping watch, sorrow for sin, and the like.
Third, then they avoid the company of lively and warm Christians.
Fourth, after that, they grow cold towards public duty — hearing, reading, godly conversation and so on.
Fifth, then they begin to pick holes, as we say, in the coats of some of the godly; and they do it devilishly, so that they may have some plausible excuse for throwing religion behind their backs on account of some weakness they have spotted in them.
Sixth, then they begin to attach themselves to, and keep company with, worldly, loose and dissolute men.
Seventh, then they give way to worldly and dissolute talk in private; and they are delighted if they can see such things in anybody who is reckoned honest, so that they may do it all the more boldly on their example.
Eighth, after this they begin to play with small sins openly.
Ninth, and then, being hardened, they show themselves for what they are. And so, launched out again into the gulf of misery, unless a miracle of grace prevents it, they perish everlastingly in their own self-deceptions.
Now I saw in my dream that by this time the Pilgrims had got over the Enchanted Ground and were coming into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant. The road ran straight through it, and they took their ease there for a while. Here they heard the singing of birds all day long, and saw the flowers coming up out of the earth every day, and heard the voice of the turtledove in the land. In this country the sun shines night and day; and so this was well beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and out of Giant Despair's reach as well — from this place they could not so much as see Doubting Castle.
Here they were within sight of the city they were going to, and here too some of its citizens came out to meet them; because the Shining Ones walk about freely in this land, since it is on the borders of heaven. In this land the contract between the bride and the bridegroom was renewed as well. Yes, here, "as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride, so did their God rejoice over them." Here they had no lack of grain or wine; because in this place they met with an abundance of everything they had been looking for through their whole pilgrimage.
Here they heard voices out of the city — loud voices, saying, "Say to the daughter of Zion, Look, your salvation is coming! Look, his reward is with him!" Here all the inhabitants of the country called them "The holy people," "The redeemed of the Lord," "Sought out."
Now as they walked in this land they had more joy than they had had in the parts further away from the kingdom they were bound for; and drawing near to the city, they got a still clearer view of it. It was built of pearls and precious stones, and its street was paved with gold; so that between the natural glory of the city and the reflection of the sunlight off it, Christian fell sick with longing. Hopeful also had a fit or two of the same illness. So here they lay by for a while, crying out because of the pangs of it, "If you find my Beloved, tell him that I am sick with love."
But being a little strengthened, and better able to bear their sickness, they walked on and came nearer and nearer, to where there were orchards, vineyards and gardens whose gates opened onto the highway. Now as they came up to these places, there stood the gardener in the road; and the Pilgrims said to him: Whose fine vineyards and gardens are these?
He answered: They are the King's, and they are planted here for his own delight, and for the refreshment of pilgrims as well.
So the gardener took them into the vineyards and told them to refresh themselves with the good things there. He also showed them the King's walks and the shady arbours where he liked to be; and here they stayed, and slept.
Now I saw in my dream that they talked more in their sleep this time than they had in the whole of their journey; and while I was puzzling over it, the gardener said to me: Why are you puzzling over the matter? It is the nature of the fruit of the grapes in these vineyards to go down so sweetly that it makes the lips of sleeping men speak.
So I saw that when they woke they set themselves to go up to the city. But as I said, the reflection of the sun off the city — because "the city was pure gold" — was so extremely glorious that they still could not look at it with the naked eye, but only through an instrument made for the purpose. So I saw that as they went on, two men met them, in clothing that shone like gold; and their faces shone like the light.
These men asked the Pilgrims where they had come from, and they told them. They also asked where they had lodged, and what difficulties and dangers, what comforts and pleasures they had met with along the way; and they told them.
Then the men who had met them said: You have only two difficulties left to meet, and then you are in the city.
So Christian and his companion asked the men to come along with them; and they said they would. But, they said, you must gain it by your own faith.
So I saw in my dream that they went on together until they came in sight of the gate.
Now I further saw that between them and the gate there was a river — but there was no bridge to cross by, and the river was very deep. So at the sight of this river the Pilgrims were badly shaken. But the men who were with them said: You must go through it, or you cannot reach the gate.
Then the Pilgrims began to ask whether there was no other way to the gate. To which they answered: Yes; but nobody except two — Enoch and Elijah — has been allowed to walk that path since the foundation of the world, nor will be, until the last trumpet sounds.
Then the Pilgrims, and Christian in particular, began to sink in their minds, and looked this way and that; but they could find no way at all by which they might get round the river. Then they asked the men whether the water was the same depth all the way across. They said no — and yet they could not help them there; because, they said, you will find it deeper or shallower according to how you believe in the King of the place.
So they addressed themselves to the water; and going in, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend Hopeful he said: I am sinking in deep water; the waves are going over my head, all his waves are going over me!
Then the other said: Take heart, my brother. I can feel the bottom, and it is solid.
Then Christian said: Ah, my friend — "the sorrows of death have closed round me"; I shall never see the land that flows with milk and honey. And with that, a great darkness and horror came down on Christian, so that he could not see in front of him. Here too he largely lost his senses, so that he could neither remember nor talk coherently about any of the sweet refreshments he had met with on his pilgrimage. Everything he said only showed that he had a horror in his mind, and fears in his heart that he was going to die in that river and never get in at the gate.
Here also, as those standing by could tell, he was full of troubled thoughts about the sins he had committed, both since he became a pilgrim and before it. It was noticed too that he was troubled by apparitions of hobgoblins and evil spirits, because every now and then he would let as much slip in words. So Hopeful had all he could do here to keep his brother's head above water. Sometimes he would go right under, and then after a while come up again half dead.
Hopeful would try to comfort him too, saying: Brother, I can see the gate, and men standing by to receive us. But Christian would answer: It is you — it is you they are waiting for. You have been Hopeful ever since I knew you.
And so have you, said Hopeful to Christian.
Ah, brother, said he — surely if I were right with him, he would rise up now and help me. But because of my sins he has brought me into the trap and left me here.
Then Hopeful said: My brother, you have quite forgotten the text where it is said of the wicked, "There are no pangs in their death; their strength is firm. They are not in trouble like other men, nor plagued like other men." These troubles and distresses you are going through in these waters are no sign that God has abandoned you. They are sent to test you — to see whether you will call to mind what you have already received of his goodness, and live on him in your distress.
Then I saw in my dream that Christian was lost in thought for a while. And Hopeful added this word to him: Take heart — Jesus Christ makes you whole.
And with that Christian burst out in a loud voice: Oh, I see him again! And he tells me, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you."
Then they both took courage, and after that the enemy was as still as a stone until they had got across. Christian soon found ground to stand on, and it turned out that the rest of the river was shallow. And so they got over.
Now on the bank of the river on the other side they saw the two shining men again, who were waiting there for them; so having come out of the river, they greeted them, saying: We are ministering spirits, sent out to serve those who shall be heirs of salvation.
So they went along towards the gate. Now you must note that the city stood on a mighty hill, but the Pilgrims went up that hill easily, because they had these two men to lead them up by the arms. They had also left their mortal clothing behind them in the river; because although they went in wearing it, they came out without it. So they went up with great lightness and speed, even though the foundation the city was built on was higher than the clouds. They went up through the regions of the air, talking sweetly as they went, and comforted because they had got over the river safely and had such glorious companions attending them.
The talk they had with the Shining Ones was about the glory of the place; and they told them that its beauty and glory were beyond describing. There, they said, is "Mount Zion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innumerable company of angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect." You are going now, they said, to the paradise of God, where you shall see the tree of life and eat its never-fading fruit; and when you get there you shall be given white robes, and your walking and talking shall be with the King every day, through all the days of eternity.
There you shall not see again the things you saw when you were in the lower region on earth — sorrow, sickness, affliction and death — "for the former things have passed away." You are going now to Abraham, to Isaac and Jacob, and to the prophets: men whom God has taken away from the evil to come, and who are now resting on their beds, each one walking in his righteousness.
Then the men asked: What must we do in the holy place?
To which it was answered: There you must receive the comfort of all your labour, and have joy for all your sorrow. You must reap what you have sown — the fruit of all your prayers and tears and sufferings for the King along the way. In that place you must wear crowns of gold, and enjoy the perpetual sight and vision of the Holy One, because "there you shall see him as he is." There you shall serve him continually with praise, with shouting and thanksgiving — the one you longed to serve in the world, though with great difficulty, because of the weakness of your flesh.
There your eyes shall be delighted with the sight, and your ears with hearing the pleasant voice of the Mighty One. There you shall enjoy your friends again, who have gone there before you; and there you shall joyfully welcome every one who follows you into the holy place after you. There too you shall be clothed with glory and majesty, and given a retinue fit to ride out with the King of glory. When he comes with the sound of a trumpet in the clouds, as on the wings of the wind, you shall come with him; and when he sits on the throne of judgment, you shall sit beside him. Yes, and when he passes sentence on all the workers of wickedness, whether they are angels or men, you also shall have a voice in that judgment, because they were his enemies and yours. And when he returns to the city again, you shall go too, with the sound of the trumpet, and be with him for ever.
Now while they were drawing on towards the gate like this, a company of the heavenly host came out to meet them; and the other two Shining Ones said to them: These are the men who loved our Lord when they were in the world, and who left everything for his holy name. He has sent us to fetch them, and we have brought them this far on the journey they longed for, so that they may go in and look their Redeemer in the face with joy.
Then the heavenly host gave a great shout, saying, "Blessed are those who are called to the marriage supper of the Lamb."
At this time too there came out to meet them several of the King's trumpeters, dressed in white and shining clothes, who with loud and melodious sounds made the very heavens echo. These trumpeters greeted Christian and his companion with ten thousand welcomes from the world; and they did it with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet.
This done, they surrounded them on every side. Some went in front, some behind, some on the right hand and some on the left, as though to guard them through the upper regions, sounding continually as they went, with melodious noise and high notes; so that the very sight of it, to anybody who could have seen it, was as if heaven itself had come down to meet them. So they walked on together; and as they walked, every now and then these trumpeters, with joyful sound, would mix their music with looks and gestures to keep showing Christian and his brother how welcome they were in their company, and how gladly they had come out to meet them.
And now these two men were, as it were, in heaven before they came to it, being swallowed up with the sight of angels and with the sound of their melodious notes. Here too they had the city itself in view, and they thought they could hear all the bells in it ringing to welcome them in. But above all, there were the warm and joyful thoughts they had about living there themselves, with such company, and that for ever and ever. Oh, what tongue or pen could ever put their glorious joy into words!
And so they came up to the gate.
Now when they had come up to the gate, there was written over it in letters of gold: "Blessed are those who do his commandments, that they may have a right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city."
Then I saw in my dream that the Shining Men told them to call at the gate; and when they did, some looked down over the top of it — Enoch, Moses and Elijah among them — and were told: These pilgrims have come from the City of Destruction, out of the love they have for the King of this place. And then the pilgrims each handed in his certificate, the one they had been given at the beginning. So these were carried in to the King, who, when he had read them, said: Where are the men?
To which it was answered: They are standing outside the gate.
Then the King commanded that the gate be opened. "That the righteous nation," he said, "which keeps the truth, may enter in."
Now I saw in my dream that these two men went in at the gate; and as they entered, they were transfigured, and clothes were put on them that shone like gold. There were people who met them with harps and crowns and gave them to them — the harps to praise with, and the crowns as a token of honour. Then I heard in my dream that all the bells in the city rang again for joy, and that it was said to them, "Enter into the joy of your Lord." And I heard the men themselves singing with a loud voice, saying, "Blessing and honour and glory and power be to him that sits on the throne, and to the Lamb, for ever and ever."
Now just as the gates were opened to let the men in, I looked in after them; and the City shone like the sun. The streets were paved with gold, and in them walked a great many men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises with. There were some among them who had wings, and they answered one another without stopping, saying, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord." And after that they shut the gates — which, when I had seen it, made me wish myself among them.
Now while I was gazing at all this, I turned my head to look back, and saw Ignorance come up to the riverside. But he got over quickly, and without half the difficulty the other two men had met with; because there happened to be in that place at the time a ferryman called Vain-hope, who helped him over with his boat. So he, like the others I had seen, went up the hill to come to the gate — only he came alone, and nobody met him with the least word of encouragement.
When he had come up to the gate, he looked up at the writing above it and began to knock, supposing that he would be let in at once. But he was asked by the men who looked over the top of the gate: Where have you come from, and what do you want?
He answered: I have eaten and drunk in the presence of the King, and he has taught in our streets.
Then they asked him for his certificate, so that they could go in and show it to the King. So he fumbled inside his coat for one, and found none.
Then they said: Have you none at all? But the man never answered a word.
So they told the King; but he would not come down to see him. Instead he ordered the two Shining Ones who had brought Christian and Hopeful to the City to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, and carry him away. So they took him up and carried him through the air to the door I had seen in the side of the hill, and put him in there.
Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of Heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction!
So I awoke, and behold it was a dream.
Now, Reader, I have told my dream to you. See whether you can interpret it to me, or to yourself, or to your neighbour — but take care of misinterpreting; because that, instead of doing good, will only do you harm. Misinterpret, and evil follows on. Take care as well that you are not extreme in playing with the outside of my dream, and do not let my figures and comparisons set you off laughing, or set you quarrelling. Leave that to boys and fools; but as for you, see the substance of my matter through. Draw back the curtains, look behind my veil, turn up my metaphors, and do not fail: there, if you look for them, you'll find such things as will be helpful to an honest mind. Whatever dross you find there, be so bold as to throw it away — but do preserve the gold. And what if my gold should be wrapped up in ore? Nobody throws the apple out for the core. But if you cast the whole lot away as vain, I do not know but it will make me dream again.
Go now, my little book, to every place where my first Pilgrim has but shown his face. Call at their door. If any say, Who's there? then answer them: Christiana is here. If they invite you in, then in you go with all your boys; and then, as you well know, tell them who these are, and where they came from — perhaps they'll know them by their looks, or name. But if they don't, then ask them yet again whether they didn't once take in and entertain one Christian, a Pilgrim. If they say they did, and were delighted with his way, then let them know that these are his relations: yes, this is his own wife, and these his children. Tell them they have left their house and home and turned Pilgrims, seeking a world to come; that they have met with hardships on the road, that trouble finds them out by night and day; that they have trodden on snakes, fought with devils, and have come out on top of a good many evils. Yes, tell them of the others too, who have out of sheer love of pilgrimage been brave defenders of that road, and how they still refuse this world, to do their Father's will. Go, tell them also of the choice good things that pilgrimage to the Pilgrim brings. Let them be told as well how dear they are to their own King, and how they're in his care; what fine houses he is providing for them, though they meet rough winds and swelling tides; and what a splendid calm they'll have at last who hold to their Lord, and to his ways, hold fast. Perhaps with heart and hand they will embrace you, as they did my firstborn, and will grace you and your fellows with such welcome and such fare as shows they are lovers of Pilgrims everywhere.
But what if they will not believe of me that I am truly yours? Because there are some who counterfeit the Pilgrim and his name, and by disguise try to seem the very same, and by that means have worked their way into the hands and houses of I don't know who.
It's true. Some have lately, to counterfeit my Pilgrim, put my title on their own; and others have stitched half my name and title onto their book, to help the thing sell better. But by their features they declare themselves not mine at all, whoever else's they are. If you meet any such, your only way in front of them all is to say out your say in your own native language, which no man uses now, and nobody can easily fake. If, after all that, they still have doubts of you, and think that you, like gypsies, wander round up to no good, to dirty the whole country, or that you're out to cheat good honest people with things you've no warrant for — then send for me, and I will testify that you are pilgrims. Yes, I will testify that only you are my Pilgrims; and that alone will do.
But what if I should ask about him at the door of those who wish him damned in life and limb? What shall I do, when at a house like that I ask for Pilgrims, and they only rage the more?
Don't frighten yourself, my book. Such bogeymen are nothing but the ground of groundless fears. My Pilgrim's book has travelled sea and land, and yet I never once could understand that it was slighted, or turned out of doors by any kingdom, whether rich or poor. In France and Flanders, where men kill each other, my Pilgrim is esteemed a friend, a brother. In Holland too, they say, as I am told, my Pilgrim is with some worth more than gold. Highlanders and wild Irish can agree that my Pilgrim should be on familiar terms with them. In New England he is so far advanced, receives there such a loving countenance, as to be trimmed, new-clothed and decked with gems so that he can show off his features and his limbs. And more than that: so handsomely he walks that thousands sing about him daily, and talk. And if you come nearer home, it will appear my Pilgrim knows no ground for shame or fear. City and country both will take him in with, Welcome, Pilgrim; yes, and they can't refrain from smiling, if my Pilgrim's only by, or shows his head in any company. Fine gentlemen will hug my Pilgrim and love him, value him greatly — yes, and rate him above things of much greater bulk; and with delight say, My lark's leg is better than a kite. Young ladies, and young gentlewomen too, show no small kindness to my Pilgrim. Their cabinets, their bosoms and their hearts my Pilgrim has, because to them he imparts his pretty riddles in such wholesome strains as yield them double profit for the pains of reading. Yes, I think I may be bold to say some prize him far above their gold. The very children walking in the street, if they should chance my holy Pilgrim meet, will greet him well, will wish him well, and say he is the finest young fellow of the day. Those who have never seen him still admire what they have heard of him, and much desire to have his company, and hear him tell those pilgrim stories that he knows so well. Yes, some who did not love him at the first, but called him fool and simpleton, say they must, now that they've seen and heard him, praise him now, and send him on to those they love. So then, my Second Part, you needn't be afraid to show your head. None can hurt you who wish well to the one that went before, because you follow after with a second store of things as good, as rich, as profitable for young, for old, for shaky and for stable.
But there are some who say, He laughs too loud; and some who say, His head is in a cloud. Some say his words and stories are so dark they cannot tell, by them, how to find his mark.
One may, I think, say this: both his laughs and cries can well be guessed at by his watery eyes. Some things are of a nature that will make a man's fancy chuckle while his heart's aching. When Jacob saw his Rachel with the sheep, he did at the same moment kiss and weep. And where some say a cloud is in his head — that only shows how wisdom is covered over with its own mantles, and set there to stir the mind to a search after what it would gladly find. Things that seem hidden away in obscure words only allure the godly mind the more to study what such sayings should contain that speak to us in such a clouded strain. I also know a dark comparison will press itself upon the fancy harder, and stick faster in the heart and head, than things not borrowed from a simile. So then, my book, let no discouragement hinder your travels. Look — you are being sent to friends, not enemies; to friends who will make room for you, your Pilgrims, and embrace your words. Besides, whatever my first Pilgrim left concealed, you, my brave second Pilgrim, have revealed. What Christian left locked up, and went his way, sweet Christiana opens with her key.
But some don't like the method of your first; they count it romance, and throw it away as dust. If I should meet with such, what should I say? Must I slight them as they slight me, or not?
My Christiana, if you meet with such, by all means, in the most loving way, greet them. Do not return them abuse for abuse; but if they frown, then please — smile back at them. Perhaps it's just their nature, or some bad report that's made them scorn you so, or answer sharply. Some love no cheese, some love no fish, and some love neither their friends nor their own house and home. Some shy at pork, think nothing of a chicken, and love a fowl no better than a cuckoo or an owl. Leave such, my Christiana, to their choice, and look for those who will rejoice to find you. By no means force yourself; but humbly go and present yourself to them in your Pilgrim's dress. Go, then, my little book, and show to all who take you in and bid you welcome what you shall keep shut up and hid from the rest; and wish that what you show them may be blessed to them for good, and make them choose to be Pilgrims far better than either you or me. Go then, I say, and tell all men who you are. Say: I am Christiana, and my part is now, with my four sons, to tell you what it is for people to take a Pilgrim's lot. Go also, tell them who and what they are that now go on pilgrimage with you. Say: Here's my neighbour Mercy; she is one who has walked a Pilgrim with me a long time. Come, see her in her single life, and learn between the idle and the Pilgrim to discern. Yes, let young women learn from her to prize the world that is to come, in any case. When young girls with light steps follow God, and leave old doting sinners to his rod, it's like those days in which the young ones cried Hosanna! — while the old ones stood and jeered. Next, tell them of old Honest, whom you found with his white hair, treading the Pilgrim's ground. Yes, tell them how plain-hearted this man was, how, following his good Lord, he bore his cross. Perhaps with some grey head this may prevail to fall in love with Christ and mourn his sin. Tell them also how Master Fearing went on pilgrimage, and how the time he spent in loneliness, with all his fears and cries — and how at last he won the joyful prize. He was a good man, though much down in spirit; he is a good man, and does life inherit. Tell them of Master Feeble-mind as well, who would not go in front, but still behind. Show them how near he came to being killed, and how one Great-heart got his life back for him. This man was true of heart, though weak in grace; you could read true godliness in his face. Then tell them of Master Ready-to-halt, a man on crutches, but with little fault. Tell them how Master Feeble-mind and he loved one another, and in opinion much agreed. And let all know that though weakness was their lot, still, sometimes one could sing and one could dance. Do not forget Master Valiant-for-truth, that man of courage, though a very youth. Tell everybody that his spirit was so stout no man could ever once make him turn about; and how Great-heart and he could not hold back, but pulled down Doubting Castle, and killed Despair. Do not pass over Master Despondency, nor Much-afraid, his daughter, though they lie under such heavy cloaks as make them look (to some) as if their God had quite forsaken them. They went softly, but they went sure; and at the end they found the Lord of Pilgrims was their friend. When you have told the world of all these things, then turn about, my book, and touch these strings, which, if but touched, will make such music as makes a cripple dance and a giant quake. These riddles lying folded in your breast, set out and open freely; and for the rest of your more mysterious lines, let them remain for those whose nimble wits shall win them. Now may this little book a blessing be to those who love this little book and me; and may the man who buys it have no cause to say his money was lost, or thrown away. Yes, may this Second Pilgrim yield such fruit as suits each good Pilgrim's fancy; and may it persuade some who go astray to turn their feet and hearts to the right way. This is the hearty prayer of
The Author,
"I have used similitudes."
Courteous Companions,
Some time ago it was a pleasure to me, and a profit to you, to tell you the dream I had about Christian the Pilgrim, and about his dangerous journey towards the Celestial Country. I told you then as well what I saw concerning his wife and children, and how unwilling they were to go with him on pilgrimage — so unwilling that he was forced to set out without them, because he dared not risk the destruction he was afraid would come of staying with them in the City of Destruction. So, as I showed you then, he left them and went.
Now it has happened, through the sheer press of business, that I have been much hindered and held back from my usual travels into the parts he came from, and so could not, until now, get an opportunity to make any further inquiry after those he left behind, so that I could give you an account of them. But having had some business that way lately, I went down there again. And having taken lodgings in a wood about a mile from the place, I dreamed again as I slept.
And in my dream, an elderly gentleman came past where I lay; and because he was going part of the way I was travelling, it seemed to me that I got up and went along with him. So as we walked, as travellers usually do, we seemed to fall into conversation; and our talk happened to turn on Christian and his travels. This is how I began with the old man.
Sir, said I, what town is that down there, lying on the left-hand side of our road?
Then Mr. Sagacity said — for that was his name — It is the City of Destruction: a populous place, but full of a very ill-natured and idle sort of people.
I thought that was the city, said I. I went through that town myself once, and so I know this report you give of it is true.
Sagacity. Too true. I wish I could speak the truth and say something better about the people who live there.
Well, sir, said I, then I see you are a well-meaning man, and one who takes pleasure in hearing and telling what is good. Tell me — did you never hear what happened some time ago to a man in this town whose name was Christian, who went on pilgrimage up towards the higher country?
Sagacity. Hear of him! Yes — and I heard too of the harassment, the troubles, the wars, the captivities, the cries and groans and frights and fears that he met with on his journey. Besides which, I have to tell you, the whole country rings with him. There are hardly any houses that have heard of him and what he did that have not gone looking for the record of his pilgrimage and got hold of it. Yes, I think I may say that that hazardous journey of his has won a great many well-wishers to his way. Because although while he was here he was a fool in everybody's mouth, now that he is gone he is highly praised by all of them. It is said he lives splendidly where he is; and many who are determined never to run his risks still find their mouths watering at his gains.
They may well think, said I — if they think anything true at all — that he lives well where he is; because he now lives at and in the Fountain of Life, and has what he has without labour or sorrow, since there is no grief mixed in with it there. But tell me — what do the people say about him?
Sagacity. Say! The people say strange things about him. Some say that he now walks in white; that he has a chain of gold about his neck; that he has a crown of gold set with pearls on his head. Others say that the Shining Ones who showed themselves to him now and then on his journey have become his companions, and that he is on as easy terms with them where he is as one neighbour is with another here.
Besides that, it is confidently stated about him that the King of the place where he is has already given him a very rich and pleasant house at court; and that every day he eats and drinks and walks and talks with him, and receives the smiles and favour of the one who is Judge of all there.
What is more, some expect that his Prince, the Lord of that country, will shortly be coming into these parts, and will want to know the reason, if they can give any, why his neighbours thought so little of him and held him up to so much ridicule when they found he meant to be a pilgrim. Because they say that he stands so high now in his Prince's affections, and that his Sovereign is so much concerned about the insults thrown at Christian when he became a pilgrim, that he will regard them all as done to himself. And no wonder — because it was for love of his Prince that Christian took the risks he did.
I must say, said I, I am glad of it. I am glad for the poor man's sake, that he now has rest from his labour, and that he now reaps the harvest of his tears with joy, and that he has got beyond the gunshot of his enemies and out of the reach of those who hate him. I am glad too that a rumour of these things is going round in this country. Who can tell but it may have some good effect on some of those left behind?
But please, sir, while it is fresh in my mind — do you hear anything of his wife and children? Poor hearts. I have been wondering what has become of them.
Sagacity. Who — Christiana and her sons? They are likely to do as well as Christian himself did. Because although they all played the fool at first, and could not be persuaded by Christian's tears or his pleading, still, second thoughts have worked wonderfully in them; so they have packed up and gone after him too.
Better and better, said I. But what — wife and children and all?
Sagacity. It is true. I can give you an account of the matter, because I was on the spot at the time and knew the whole affair thoroughly.
Then, said I, a man may report it for a fact?
Sagacity. You need not be afraid to state it — I mean that they have all gone on pilgrimage, both the good woman and her four boys. And since we are, as I gather, going a considerable way together, I will give you an account of the whole thing.
This Christiana — for that was her name from the day she and her children took up a pilgrim's life — after her husband had gone over the river, and she could hear nothing more of him, began to have her thoughts working in her mind. First, because she had lost her husband, and because the loving bond of that relationship was utterly broken between them. Because you know, he said to me, nature can do no less than fill the living with many a heavy thought at the memory of losing those they loved. This, then, over her husband, cost her many a tear.
But that was not all. Christiana also began to consider whether her own unbecoming behaviour towards her husband was not one reason she never saw him again, and why he was taken from her the way he was. And on top of this there came into her mind, in swarms, all her unkind and unnatural and ungodly conduct towards her dear friend — which clogged her conscience and loaded her down with guilt.
She was, moreover, badly broken by calling to mind her husband's restless groans, his salt tears, and his lamenting over himself; and how she had hardened her heart against all his pleading and his loving attempts to persuade her and her sons to go with him. Yes — there was not a thing Christian either said to her or did in front of her the whole time his burden hung on his back that did not come back on her like a flash of lightning and tear her heart open. Above all, that bitter cry of his, "What shall I do to be saved?" rang in her ears most miserably.
Then she said to her children: Sons, we are all ruined. I have sinned your father away, and he is gone. He wanted us with him, but I would not go myself. And I have kept you back from life as well.
At that the boys all burst into tears and cried out to go after their father.
Oh, said Christiana, if it had only been our lot to go with him! Then things would have gone well with us, beyond anything they are likely to do now. Because although I used foolishly to imagine, about your father's troubles, that they came out of some foolish notion he had got, or that he was overrun with melancholy, still, now I cannot get it out of my mind that they came from something else altogether: that the Light of light was given him, and that by its help, as I can see now, he has escaped the traps of death.
Then they all wept again, and cried out: Oh, cursed be the day!
The next night Christiana had a dream. She saw, as it were, a broad sheet of parchment opened out in front of her, on which the sum of all her ways was written down; and the record, as she thought, looked very black against her. Then she cried out aloud in her sleep, "Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!" And the little children heard her.
After that, she thought she saw two very evil-looking creatures standing by her bedside, saying: What are we going to do with this woman? Because she cries out for mercy waking and sleeping. If she is allowed to go on as she has begun, we shall lose her as we lost her husband. So one way or another we must find a way to take her mind off what is to come hereafter; otherwise nothing in the world can stop her becoming a pilgrim.
Now she woke up in a great sweat, and shaking; but after a while she fell asleep again. And then she thought she saw Christian her husband in a place of bliss, among a great many immortals, with a harp in his hand, standing and playing on it before One who sat on a throne with a rainbow round his head. And she saw him bow his head, with his face down to the paved floor under the Prince's feet, saying: I thank my Lord and King with all my heart for bringing me into this place. Then a company of those standing round about shouted, and played on their harps; but no living person could tell what they said, except Christian and his companions.
The next morning, when she was up and had prayed to God and talked with her children a while, somebody knocked hard at the door. So she called out, saying: If you come in God's name, come in.
So he said, Amen, and opened the door, and greeted her with "Peace be to this house." And when he had done that, he said: Christiana, do you know why I have come?
Then she went red and began to tremble, and her heart began to grow warm with wanting to know where he had come from and what his errand to her was. So he said to her: My name is Secret; I live among those who are on high. It is spoken of, where I live, as if you had a wish to come there. And there is a report too that you are aware of the wrong you did your husband in hardening your heart against his way, and in keeping these children of yours in ignorance.
Christiana, the Merciful One has sent me to tell you that he is a God ready to forgive, and that he takes delight in multiplying his pardons for offences. He also wants you to know that he invites you to come into his presence, to his table, and that he will feed you with the richest of his house, and with the inheritance of Jacob your father.
There is Christian your husband — that was — with legions more of his companions, for ever looking at that face which gives life to all who look at it; and every one of them will be glad when they hear the sound of your feet crossing your Father's threshold.
Christiana was deeply humbled at this, and bowed her head to the ground; and the Visitor went on and said: Christiana, here is a letter for you as well, which I have brought from your husband's King.
So she took it and opened it — and it smelled like the finest perfume, and it was written in letters of gold. The contents of the letter were that the King would have her do as Christian her husband had done, because that was the way to come to his city and to live in his presence with joy for ever.
At this the good woman was quite overcome. So she cried out to her visitor: Sir, will you take me and my children with you, so that we too may go and worship this King?
Then the visitor said: Christiana, the bitter comes before the sweet. You must enter this Celestial City by way of troubles, as the man who went before you did. So my advice is that you do what Christian your husband did. Go to that little gate over there, across the plain, because that stands at the head of the road you must go up; and I wish you all speed.
I advise you as well to put this letter inside your coat, and to read it over to yourself and to your children until you have it by heart; because it is one of the songs you must sing while you are in this house of your pilgrimage. And you must hand it in at the gate at the far end.
Now I saw in my dream that this old gentleman, as he told me this story, seemed to be greatly moved by it himself. He went on, and said:
So Christiana called her sons together and began to speak to them like this. My sons, I have lately been, as you may have noticed, under a great deal of distress of soul about the death of your father — not because I have any doubt at all about his happiness, since I am satisfied now that he is well. I have also been much troubled by thoughts about my own condition and yours, which I really do believe is by nature a wretched one. My behaviour to your father in his distress lies heavy on my conscience too, because I hardened my own heart and yours against him, and refused to go with him on pilgrimage.
The thought of these things would kill me outright now, if it were not for a dream I had last night, and for the encouragement this stranger has given me this morning. Come, my children — let us pack up and be off to the gate that leads to the Celestial Country, so that we may see your father, and be with him and his companions in peace, according to the laws of that land.
Then her children burst into tears for joy, that their mother's heart was so turned. So their visitor said goodbye to them, and they began to get ready to set out on their journey.
But while they were on the point of going, two of the women who were Christiana's neighbours came up to the house and knocked at her door. To whom she said, as before: If you come in God's name, come in.
At this the women were taken aback, because they were not used to hearing that kind of language, or noticing it fall from Christiana's lips. Still, they came in — and there they found the good woman getting ready to leave her house.
So they began, and said: Neighbour, tell us, please — what do you mean by this?
Christiana answered the elder of them, whose name was Mrs. Timorous: I am getting ready for a journey. (This Timorous was the daughter of the man who met Christian on the Hill Difficulty and wanted him to turn back for fear of the lions.)
Timorous. What journey, may I ask?
Christiana. To go after my good husband. And with that she burst into tears.
Timorous. I hope not, good neighbour. For your poor children's sake, do not throw yourself away in such an unwomanly fashion.
Christiana. No — my children are going with me. Not one of them is willing to stay behind.
Timorous. I wonder with all my heart what, or who, has put you into this frame of mind.
Christiana. Oh, neighbour — if you knew only as much as I do, I have no doubt you would come with me.
Timorous. Tell me, please: what new knowledge have you got hold of that turns your mind so against your friends, and tempts you to go off nobody knows where?
Christiana. Then Christiana answered: I have been sorely afflicted since my husband left me, and especially since he went over the river. But what troubles me most is my churlish behaviour towards him when he was in his distress. And besides that, I am now as he was then: nothing will do for me but going on pilgrimage.
I dreamed last night that I saw him. Oh, that my soul were with him! He lives in the presence of the King of that country; he sits and eats with him at his table; he has become a companion of immortals, and has been given a house to live in that makes the best palaces on earth look to me, by comparison, like a rubbish heap. The Prince of the place has sent for me too, with the promise of a welcome if I will come to him. His messenger was here just now, and has brought me a letter inviting me.
And with that she pulled out her letter and read it, and said to them: Now what have you to say to this?
Timorous. Oh, the madness that has taken hold of you and your husband, to run yourselves into such difficulties! You have heard, I am sure, what your husband met with almost at the very first step he took on the road — as our neighbour Obstinate can still testify, because he went along with him; yes, and Pliable too, until they, like sensible men, were afraid to go any further. We heard as well how he met with the lions, and Apollyon, and the Shadow of Death, and a great many other things. Nor should you forget the danger he met with at Vanity Fair; because if he, a man, was so hard put to it, what can you do, being only a poor woman?
Consider too that these four sweet children are yours, your own flesh and bone. So even if you should be rash enough to throw yourself away, still, for the sake of your own children, stay at home.
But Christiana said to her: Do not tempt me, neighbour. I have a price put into my hand now to buy something with, and I should be the greatest fool alive if I had no heart to seize the chance. And as for all these troubles you tell me I am likely to meet on the road — so far from being any discouragement to me, they show me I am in the right. The bitter must come before the sweet, and that is what will make the sweet the sweeter. So, since you did not come to my house in God's name, as I said, please go away and stop disturbing me.
Then Timorous turned abusive as well, and said to her companion: Come along, neighbour Mercy, let us leave her to her own devices, since she despises our advice and our company.
But Mercy hung back, and could not fall in with her neighbour so readily; and that for two reasons. First, her heart went out to Christiana. So she said to herself: If my neighbour must go, I will go a little way with her and help her on. Second, her heart was moved about her own soul, because what Christiana had said had taken some hold on her mind. So she said to herself again: I will have some more talk with this Christiana; and if I find truth and life in what she says, then I and my whole heart will go along with her.
So Mercy began to answer her neighbour Timorous like this.
Mercy. Neighbour, I did come along with you to see Christiana this morning; and since she is, as you see, taking her last farewell of her country, I think I will walk a little way with her this sunny morning and help her on her road. (But she did not tell her the second reason; she kept that to herself.)
Timorous. Well, I see you have a mind to go off and play the fool too. But take warning while there is time, and be sensible. While we are out of danger, we are out of it; but once we are in, we are in.
So Mrs. Timorous went back to her house, and Christiana set off on her journey. But when Timorous had got home, she sent for some of her neighbours — Mrs. Bat's-eyes, Mrs. Inconsiderate, Mrs. Light-mind and Mrs. Know-nothing. And when they had come to her house, she set about telling them the story of Christiana and her intended journey. This is how she began her tale.
Timorous. Neighbours, having had little to do this morning, I went to pay Christiana a visit; and when I came to the door I knocked, as you know is our custom. And she answered: If you come in God's name, come in. So in I went, thinking everything was as usual. But when I got in, I found her getting ready to leave the town — she and her children too. So I asked her what she meant by it. And she told me, in short, that she had now made up her mind to go on pilgrimage, as her husband did. She told me too about a dream she had had, and how the King of the country where her husband is had sent her a letter inviting her to come there.
Then Mrs. Know-nothing said: What — do you think she will really go?
Timorous. Yes, go she will, whatever comes of it. And this is how I know it. The thing that was my great argument for persuading her to stay at home — namely the troubles she is likely to meet on the road — is one of her great arguments for going. Because she told me in so many words, "The bitter goes before the sweet." Yes, and just because it does, it makes the sweet the sweeter.
Mrs. Bat's-eyes. Oh, the blind, foolish woman! said she. Will she not take warning from her husband's sufferings? For my part I am sure that if he were back here again, he would settle for a whole skin and never run so many risks for nothing.
Mrs. Inconsiderate answered as well, saying: Away with such fanciful fools out of the town! A good riddance, I say, as far as she is concerned. If she stayed where she lives and kept this frame of mind, who could live quietly next to her? Because she will either be gloomy or unneighbourly, or she will talk about the sort of things no sensible person can put up with. So for my part I shall never be sorry she has gone. Let her go, and let somebody better come into her place. It has never been a good world since these whimsical fools started living in it.
Then Mrs. Light-mind added this: Come, put that kind of talk away. I was at Madam Wanton's yesterday, where we were as merry as could be. Because who do you think was there but myself, and Mrs. Love-the-flesh, and three or four more, with Mr. Lechery, Mrs. Filth and some others. So we had music there, and dancing, and whatever else was called for to fill out the pleasure. And I must say my lady herself is an admirably well-bred gentlewoman, and Mr. Lechery is as fine a fellow as you could wish.
By this time Christiana had got out on her road, and Mercy was walking with her. So as they went, her children being with them too, Christiana began to talk.
And, Mercy, said Christiana, I take it as an unexpected kindness that you should set foot outside your door with me, to keep me company a little way on my road.
Mercy. Then young Mercy said, for she was still young: If I thought there would be any purpose in going with you, I would never go near that town again.
Christiana. Well, Mercy, said Christiana, throw in your lot with me. I know perfectly well what the end of our pilgrimage will be. My husband is where he would not give up being for all the gold in the Spanish mines. And you will not be turned away either, even though you come only on my invitation. The King who has sent for me and my children is one who delights in mercy. Besides — if you like, I will take you into my service, and you shall come along with me as my servant; and yet we will have everything in common between us. Only come along with me.
Mercy. But how am I to be sure that I shall be received too? If I had that hope from somebody who could tell me, I would make no difficulty at all, but would go, helped by the one who can help — however wearisome the road might be.
Christiana. Well, kind Mercy, I will tell you what to do. Come with me as far as the little gate, and there I will make further inquiries for you; and if you do not meet with any encouragement there, then I shall be content for you to go back to your own place. And I will pay you for the kindness you are showing me and my children in coming with us on our road as you are doing.
Mercy. Then I will go there, and take whatever follows; and may the Lord grant that my lot falls there just as the King of Heaven shall have his heart set on me.
Christiana was glad at heart then, not only because she had a companion, but also because she had prevailed on this poor girl to fall in love with her own salvation. So they went on together — and Mercy began to cry.
Then Christiana said: Why is my sister crying?
Mercy. Ah, said she, who could help grieving, if they really considered what a state and condition my poor relations are still in, back in that sinful town of ours? And what makes my grief heavier is that they have nobody to teach them, and nobody to tell them what is coming.
Christiana. Compassion becomes a pilgrim. And you are doing for your friends what my good Christian did for me when he left me. He mourned because I would not listen to him or take any notice of him. But his Lord and ours gathered up his tears afterwards and put them into his bottle; and now both you and I, and these sweet children of mine, are reaping the fruit and the benefit of them.
I hope, Mercy, that these tears of yours will not be lost either; because the truth has said that "those who sow in tears shall reap in joy," singing. And "he who goes out weeping, carrying precious seed, shall doubtless come back rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him."
Then Mercy said:
Let the Most Blessed be my guide, if it should be his will, up to his gate, into his fold, up to his holy hill. And let him never let me swerve or turn myself aside from his free grace and holy ways, whatever may betide. And let him gather in my own, the ones I've left behind; Lord, make them pray to be your own with all their heart and mind.
Now my old friend went on, and said: But when Christiana came up to the Slough of Despond, she stopped short; because, she said, this is the place where my dear husband was nearly smothered in the mud. She noticed too that in spite of the King's order to make this place good for pilgrims, it was rather worse than it had been before.
So I asked whether that was true. Yes, said the old gentleman, only too true. Because there are a great many who claim to be the King's workmen, and who say they are for mending the King's highway, who bring dirt and dung instead of stones, and so spoil it instead of mending it.
So here Christiana and her boys came to a halt. But Mercy said: Come, let us risk it — only let us be careful. Then they watched the stepping stones closely and managed to get across, staggering as they went. Even so, Christiana was nearly in, and that more than once or twice. And no sooner had they got over than they thought they heard words saying to them, "Blessed is she who believed; for there shall be a fulfilment of the things that were told her from the Lord."
Then they went on again; and Mercy said to Christiana: If I had as good a ground as you have for hoping for a kind reception at the little gate, I think no Slough of Despond would put me off.
Well, said the other, you know your own sore and I know mine; and, good friend, we shall all have trouble enough before we come to the end of our journey.
Because can it be imagined that people who mean to reach such splendid glories as we do, and who are so envied that happiness as we are, will not meet with every fear and fright, every trouble and affliction that those who hate us can possibly attack us with?
And now Mr. Sagacity left me to dream out my dream by myself.
So it seemed to me that I saw Christiana and Mercy and the boys all go up to the gate; and when they had got there they had a short discussion about how they ought to manage their calling at the gate, and what should be said to the one who opened it. So it was settled that since Christiana was the eldest, she should be the one to knock for admission, and that she should speak to whoever opened, on behalf of the rest.
So Christiana began to knock; and, as her poor husband had done, she knocked, and knocked again. But instead of anyone answering, they all thought they heard something like a dog come barking at them — a dog, and a big one at that. And this frightened the women and the children, and for a while they did not dare knock any more, in case the mastiff should fly at them.
So now they were greatly tossed about in their minds, and did not know what to do. They dared not knock, for fear of the dog; and they dared not go back, in case the Keeper of the gate should catch sight of them going and be offended with them. At last they thought of knocking again, and knocked harder than they had the first time.
Then the Keeper of the gate said: Who is there? At which the dog stopped barking, and he opened to them.
Then Christiana bowed low and said: Do not let our Lord be offended with his servants, because we have knocked at his princely gate.
Then the Keeper said: Where have you come from, and what is it you want?
Christiana answered: We have come from the place Christian came from, and on the same errand as he did — namely, to be graciously admitted, if it should please you, in at this gate onto the road that leads to the Celestial City. And I answer further, my Lord, that I am Christiana, who was once the wife of Christian, and who is now got above.
At this the Keeper of the gate marvelled, saying: What! Has she become a pilgrim now, who only a little while ago detested that life?
Then she bowed her head and said: Yes — and so have these sweet children of mine.
Then he took her by the hand and let her in, and said as well, "Suffer the little children to come to me." And with that he shut the gate. This done, he called up to a trumpeter above the gate to welcome Christiana with shouting and the sound of the trumpet, for joy. So the trumpeter obeyed, and sounded, and filled the air with his melodious notes.
Now all this time poor Mercy stood outside, trembling and crying for fear that she had been refused. But once Christiana had got admission for herself and her boys, she began to plead for Mercy.
Christiana. And she said: My Lord, I have a companion of mine still standing outside, who has come here on the same account as I have. She is very cast down in her mind, because she comes, as she thinks, without being sent for — whereas I was sent for to come, by my husband's King.
Now Mercy began to get very impatient, because every minute felt as long to her as an hour. So she cut Christiana's pleading short by knocking at the gate herself. And she knocked so loud that she made Christiana jump.
Then the Keeper of the gate said: Who is there? And Christiana said: It is my friend.
So he opened the gate and looked out — and there was Mercy fallen down outside in a faint, because she had fainted away, afraid that no gate would ever be opened to her.
Then he took her by the hand and said: Young woman, I tell you to get up.
Oh sir, said she, I am faint; there is hardly any life left in me.
But he answered: Somebody once said, "When my soul fainted within me, I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came in to you, into your holy temple." Do not be afraid, but stand on your feet, and tell me why you have come.
Mercy. I have come to something I was never invited to, as my friend Christiana was. Hers was an invitation from the King, and mine was only from her. So I am afraid I am presuming.
Keeper. Did she ask you to come with her to this place?
Mercy. Yes; and, as my Lord sees, I have come. And if there is any grace or forgiveness of sins to spare, I beg that I, your poor servant, may have a share in it.
Then he took her by the hand again and led her gently in, and said: I pray for all those who believe in me, by whatever means they come to me.
Then he said to those standing by: Fetch something and give it to Mercy to smell, to stop her fainting. So they fetched her a bundle of myrrh, and after a while she came round.
And now Christiana and her boys and Mercy had been received by the Lord at the head of the road, and spoken to kindly by him. Then they said to him further: We are sorry for our sins, and we beg our Lord's pardon, and to be told what we must do next.
I grant pardon, he said, by word and by deed: by word, in the promise of forgiveness; by deed, in the way I obtained it. Take the first from my lips with a kiss, and the other as it shall be revealed to you.
Now I saw in my dream that he spoke a great many good words to them, which gladdened them greatly. He also took them up to the top of the gate and showed them by what deed they had been saved, and told them at the same time that they would have that sight again, for their comfort, as they went along the road.
So he left them a while in a summer parlour below, where they got into conversation among themselves; and Christiana began: Oh Lord, how glad I am that we have got in here!
Mercy. Well you may be. But of all of us I have most reason to jump for joy.
Christiana. There was one moment, standing at the gate, when I thought — because I had knocked and nobody answered — that all our effort had been wasted; and especially when that ugly cur set up such a heavy barking at us.
Mercy. But my worse fear came after I had seen you taken into his favour and myself left outside. Now, I thought, what is written has come true: "Two women shall be grinding together; the one shall be taken and the other left." I had all I could do to keep from crying out, I am finished!
And I was afraid to knock any more. But when I looked up at what was written over the gate, I took courage. And I thought too that I must either knock again or die. So I knocked — but I cannot tell you how, because my spirit was struggling then between life and death.
Christiana. You cannot tell how you knocked? I am sure your knocking was so desperate that the very sound of it made me jump. I thought I had never heard such knocking in my life. I thought you meant to come in by main force, or take the kingdom by storm.
Mercy. But to be in my situation — who that was in it could have done otherwise? You saw that the door was shut on me, and that there was a most savage dog about the place. Who, I say, that was as fainthearted as I was, would not have knocked with all their might? But tell me, please — what did my Lord say about my rudeness? Was he not angry with me?
Christiana. When he heard your thundering, he gave the most wonderfully innocent smile. I believe what you did pleased him well enough, because he gave no sign of anything else. But I do wonder in my heart why he keeps such a dog. If I had known about that beforehand, I am afraid I would not have had the courage to venture here like this. But now that we are in, we are in, and I am glad of it with all my heart.
Mercy. If you like, I will ask him next time he comes down why he keeps such a filthy cur in his yard. I hope he will not take it badly.
Yes, do, said the children — and persuade him to hang it; because we are afraid it will bite us when we go on from here.
So at last he came down to them again; and Mercy fell face down on the ground before him and worshipped, and said: Let my Lord accept the sacrifice of praise that I offer him now with the fruit of my lips.
So he said to her, "Peace be to you; stand up." But she stayed on her face and said, "You are righteous, Lord, when I plead with you; and yet let me talk with you about your judgments." Why do you keep such a savage dog in your yard, at the sight of which women and children like us are ready to run away from your gate in fear?
He answered and said: That dog has another owner, and he is kept shut up on another man's ground; only my pilgrims hear him barking. He belongs to the castle you can see over there in the distance, though he can come right up to the walls of this place. He has frightened many an honest pilgrim out of a worse way into a better one, by the loudness of his roaring.
The man who owns him certainly does not keep him out of any goodwill to me or mine, but with the intention of keeping pilgrims from coming to me, and of making them afraid to knock at this gate for entry. Sometimes he has broken out too, and has savaged some that I loved. But I bear all of this patiently at present. I also give my pilgrims timely help, so that they are not handed over to his power, to have done to them what his doggish nature would prompt.
But come — you whom I have bought: I dare say that if you had known about him beforehand, you would not have been afraid of a dog anyway.
Beggars who go from door to door will run the risk of the bawling and barking and even the biting of a dog, rather than lose the chance of a penny. And shall a dog — a dog in another man's yard, a dog whose barking I turn to my pilgrims' profit — keep anybody from coming to me? I deliver them from the lions, and their darling from the power of the dog.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: I confess my ignorance. I spoke about what I did not understand. I acknowledge that you do all things well.
Christiana. Then Christiana began to talk about their journey, and to ask about the road. So he fed them, and washed their feet, and set them on the way of his own steps, exactly as he had dealt with her husband before.
So I saw in my dream that they walked on their way, and had very pleasant weather for it. Then Christiana began to sing:
Blessed be the day when I began to be a pilgrim too; and blessed be that man as well who moved me to it. It's true it was a long while first before I sought to live for ever; but now I run as fast as I can — better late than never. Our tears to joy, our fears to faith are turned, as we can see; so that our start, as someone says, shows what our end will be.
Now there was, on the other side of the wall that fenced in the road Christiana and her companions had to go up, a garden; and that garden belonged to the man who owned the barking dog mentioned earlier. And some of the fruit trees growing in that garden pushed their branches out over the wall; and being ripe, whoever found them would gather them and often eat them, to their own harm.
So Christiana's boys, as boys will, being taken with the trees and the fruit hanging on them, pulled the branches down and began to eat. Their mother told them off for doing it, but the boys carried on anyway.
Well, said she, my sons, you are doing wrong, because that fruit is not ours. But she did not know that the trees belonged to the enemy; I assure you that if she had, she would have been ready to die of fright.
But that passed off, and they went on their way. Now by the time they had got about two bowshots from the place that let them onto the road, they saw two very evil-looking creatures coming down quickly to meet them. At that, Christiana and Mercy her friend covered themselves with their veils and kept walking; the children went on ahead. And so at last they all met.
Then the two who had come down to meet them came right up to the women, as though they meant to embrace them. But Christiana said: Stand back, or go quietly past us, as you ought.
Yet these two, like men who were deaf, took no notice of what Christiana said, but began to lay hands on them. At that Christiana grew furious and kicked at them. Mercy too did everything she could to fight them off. Christiana said to them again: Stand back and be off with you. We have no money to lose, being pilgrims, as you can see — and pilgrims who live on the charity of our friends at that.
Ill-favoured one. Then one of the two men said: We are not attacking you for money. We have come out to tell you that if you will only grant one small request we shall ask, we will make women of you for ever.
Christiana. Now Christiana, guessing what they meant, answered: We will not listen to what you ask, or consider it, or give way to it. We are in a hurry and cannot stop. Our business is a business of life and death.
So she and her companion made another attempt to get past them; but the men blocked their way.
Ill-favoured one. And they said: We mean no harm to your lives. It is another thing we want.
Christiana. Ah, said Christiana — you want us body and soul, because I know that is what you have come for. But we will die on the spot rather than let ourselves be brought into traps that would put our well-being hereafter at risk.
And with that they both shrieked out and cried, Murder! Murder! — and so put themselves under the protection of the laws that exist for the protection of women. But the men still came at them, meaning to have their way. So the women cried out again.
Now since they were, as I said, not far from the gate they had come in at, their voices carried from where they were as far as the gate. So some of the household came out; and knowing it was Christiana's voice, they hurried to her rescue. But by the time they had got in sight of them, the women were in a violent struggle, with the children standing crying alongside.
Then the man who had come to their rescue called out to the ruffians, saying: What is this you are doing? Would you make my Lord's people break his law? He also tried to seize them, but they escaped over the wall into the garden of the man who owned the great dog; and so the dog became their protector.
Then this Reliever came up to the women and asked them how they were. So they answered: Thanks be to your Prince, well enough. Only we have had a bad fright. And we thank you as well for coming in to help us, because otherwise we would have been overpowered.
Reliever. So after a few more words this Reliever said: I wondered very much, when you were received at the gate up there, that knowing as you did that you were only weak women, you did not petition the Lord there for an escort. Then you might have avoided these troubles and dangers, because he would have granted you one.
Christiana. Ah, said Christiana, we were so taken up with the blessing right in front of us that dangers still to come went clean out of our minds. Besides — who would have thought that so near to the King's palace there would be such wicked creatures lying in wait? It really would have been well for us if we had asked our Lord for an escort. But since our Lord knew it would be for our good, I wonder that he did not send one along with us anyway.
Reliever. It is not always necessary to grant what is not asked for, in case by granting it the thing comes to be thought little of. But when the lack of something is actually felt, then in the eyes of the person who feels it, it comes to be valued at its proper worth, and consequently it will be used properly afterwards. If my Lord had granted you an escort, you would not have lamented your oversight in failing to ask for one, as now you have good reason to do. So all things work for good, and tend to make you more careful.
Christiana. Shall we go back to my Lord and confess our foolishness and ask for one?
Reliever. I will present him with your confession of your foolishness. You need not go back; because everywhere you come you will find nothing lacking. In every one of my Lord's lodgings, which he has prepared for the reception of his pilgrims, there is enough to equip them against attacks of any kind. But as I said, "He will be asked by them to do it for them." And a thing that is not worth asking for is a poor thing indeed.
When he had said this he went back to his place, and the Pilgrims went on their way.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: What a sudden setback this is! I reckoned we were past all danger now, and that we should never see any more sorrow.
Christiana. Your innocence, my sister, said Christiana to Mercy, may excuse you a good deal. But as for me, my fault is all the greater, because I saw this danger before I ever came out of doors, and still made no provision against it where provision could have been had. So I am much to blame.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: How did you know about it before you left home? Explain this riddle to me.
Christiana. Why, I will tell you. Before I set foot outside the door, one night as I lay in my bed I had a dream about this very thing. Because I thought I saw two men, as like these two as anything in the world, standing at the foot of my bed and plotting how they might stop my salvation. I will tell you their very words. They said — this was when I was in my troubles — What shall we do with this woman? Because she cries out, waking and sleeping, for forgiveness. If she is allowed to go on as she has begun, we shall lose her as we lost her husband. That, you see, might have made me take care, and provide for it while provision could be had.
Mercy. Well, said Mercy, just as this neglect has given us the occasion to see our own shortcomings, so our Lord has taken the occasion by it to show the riches of his grace. Because he has, as we can see, followed us with kindness we never asked for, and has delivered us out of the hands of men who were stronger than we are, purely out of his own good pleasure.
So now, when they had talked away a little more time, they came near to a house that stood beside the road — a house that had been built for the relief of pilgrims, as you will find more fully told in the First Part of these Records of the Pilgrim's Progress. So they came on towards the house, the House of the Interpreter; and when they got to the door they heard a great deal of talk going on inside. So they listened, and heard, as they thought, Christiana mentioned by name.
Because you have to understand that news of her and her children going on pilgrimage had run on ahead of her. And this was all the more pleasing to the household because they had heard she was Christian's wife — that woman who had been so unwilling, not long since, even to hear of going on pilgrimage. So they stood still and listened to the good people inside praising her, who little thought she was standing at the door.
At last Christiana knocked, as she had done at the gate before. And when she had knocked, a young woman named Innocent came to the door and opened it and looked out — and there were two women standing there.
Innocent. Then the young woman said to them: Who is it you would like to speak to here?
Christiana. Christiana answered: We understand that this is a privileged place for those who have become pilgrims; and we standing at this door are such. So we ask that we may have a share in what we have come here for; because the day, as you see, is nearly over, and we are unwilling to go any further tonight.
Innocent. Tell me, please, what may I call your name, so that I can tell my Lord inside?
Christiana. My name is Christiana. I was the wife of that pilgrim who travelled this way some years ago, and these are his four children. This young woman is my companion, and is going on pilgrimage too.
Innocent. Then Innocent ran in — for that was her name — and said to those inside: Can you imagine who is at the door? Christiana is there, and her children, and her companion, all waiting to be received here.
Then they leapt for joy, and went and told their Master. So he came to the door, and looking at her, he said: Are you that Christiana whom Christian, the good man, left behind him when he took up a pilgrim's life?
Christiana. I am that woman who was so hard-hearted as to think nothing of my husband's troubles, and who left him to go on his journey alone. And these are his four children. But now I have come too, because I am convinced that no road is the right one but this.
Interpreter. Then what is written of the man who said to his son is fulfilled: "Go and work in my vineyard today. He answered and said, I will not — but afterwards he repented, and went."
Christiana. Then Christiana said: So be it, amen. God make it a true saying about me, and grant that I may be found by him at the last in peace, without spot and blameless.
Interpreter. But why are you standing here at the door? Come in, daughter of Abraham. We were talking about you just now, because word came to us before you did that you had become a pilgrim. Come in, children; come in, young woman.
So he took them all into the house.
So when they were inside, they were told to sit down and rest. And when they had done that, those who looked after the Pilgrims in the house came into the room to see them. And one smiled, and another smiled, and they all smiled, for joy that Christiana had become a pilgrim. They looked at the boys too, and stroked them over the faces with their hands, as a sign of how gladly they received them. They behaved lovingly to Mercy as well, and welcomed them all into their Master's house.
After a while, since supper was not ready, the Interpreter took them into his rooms of emblems and showed them what Christian, Christiana's husband, had seen some time before. So here they saw the man in the cage, and the man and his dream, and the man who cut his way through his enemies, and the picture of the greatest of them all, together with the rest of the things that had been so useful to Christian then.
This done, and after Christiana and her company had digested it a little, the Interpreter took them aside again and brought them first into a room where there was a man who could look nowhere but downwards, with a muckrake in his hand. There was somebody standing over his head as well with a heavenly crown in his hand, offering him that crown for his muckrake; but the man neither looked up nor took any notice, but went on raking together the straws and the little sticks and the dust of the floor.
Then Christiana said: I am fairly sure I know something of what this means. This is a picture of a man of this world, is it not, good sir?
Interpreter. You have said the right thing, said he. And his muckrake shows his earthbound mind. And as for seeing him pay more attention to raking up straws and sticks and the dust of the floor than to the one who calls him from above with the heavenly crown in his hand — that is to show that heaven is nothing but a fable to some people, and that the things down here are counted the only solid things there are. Now as for its also being shown you that the man could look nowhere but downwards, that is to let you know that earthly things, when they have real power over people's minds, carry their hearts clean away from God.
Christiana. Then Christiana said: Oh, deliver me from this muckrake!
Interpreter. That prayer, said the Interpreter, has lain by so long it is nearly rusty. "Give me not riches" is hardly the prayer of one man in ten thousand. Straws and sticks and dust are the great things most people are after now.
At that Mercy and Christiana wept, and said: It is only too true.
When the Interpreter had shown them this, he took them into the very best room in the house — a very fine room it was. So he told them to look round and see whether they could find anything useful there. So they looked round and round; and there was nothing at all to be seen except a very large spider on the wall — and they overlooked that.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: Sir, I see nothing. But Christiana held her tongue.
Interpreter. But, said the Interpreter, look again. So she looked again, and said: There is nothing here but an ugly spider, hanging by her hands on the wall.
Then he said: Is there only one spider in all this spacious room?
Then the tears came into Christiana's eyes, because she was a woman quick to understand; and she said: Yes, Lord, there is more than one here. Yes — and spiders whose venom is far more destructive than what is in that one.
The Interpreter then looked at her kindly and said: You have spoken the truth. This made Mercy blush, and made the boys cover their faces, because they were all beginning to understand the riddle now.
Then the Interpreter said again: "The spider takes hold with her hands," as you see, "and is in kings' palaces." And why is that written down, except to show you that however full of the venom of sin you may be, still, by the hand of faith you may lay hold of, and live in, the best room that belongs to the King's house above?
Christiana. I did think, said Christiana, of something along those lines; but I could not work it all out. I thought we were like spiders, and that we looked like ugly creatures whatever fine room we were in. But that from this spider — this venomous, ill-favoured creature — we were to learn how to exercise faith, that never came into my mind. And yet she has taken hold with her hands, as I can see, and lives in the best room in the house. God has made nothing in vain.
Then they all seemed glad, but there were tears in their eyes; and they looked at one another, and bowed to the Interpreter.
He then took them into another room where there was a hen with chickens, and told them to watch for a while. So one of the chicks went to the trough to drink; and every time she drank she lifted up her head and her eyes towards heaven.
See, said he, what this little chick does; and learn from her to acknowledge where your mercies come from, by looking up as you receive them.
Now again, said he, watch and look. So they paid attention, and saw that the hen had four different ways of dealing with her chicks. First, she had an everyday call, which she used all day long. Second, she had a special call, which she used only sometimes. Third, she had a brooding note. And fourth, she had a cry of alarm.
Now, said he, compare this hen to your King, and these chicks to those who obey him. Because, answering to her, he has his own methods that he uses towards his people. By his everyday call he gives nothing; by his special call he always has something to give; he has a brooding voice for those who are under his wing; and he has a cry of alarm to give warning when he sees the enemy coming. I chose, my dear ones, to bring you into the room where such things are, because you are women, and these are things you will follow easily.
Christiana. And sir, said Christiana, please let us see some more.
So he took them into the slaughterhouse, where a butcher was killing a sheep; and the sheep was quiet, and took her death patiently. Then the Interpreter said: You must learn from this sheep to suffer, and to bear wrongs without grumbling and complaining. Look how quietly she takes her death, and how without any protest she lets her skin be pulled over her ears. Your King calls you his sheep.
After this he led them into his garden, where there was a great variety of flowers; and he said: Do you see all these?
So Christiana said, Yes.
Then he said again: See how the flowers differ in height, and in quality, and in colour, and in scent, and in usefulness; and some are better than others. And where the gardener has planted them, there they stand, and do not quarrel with one another.
Then he took them into his field, which he had sown with wheat and corn; but when they looked, the tops had all been cut off and only the straw was left. He said again: This ground was manured and ploughed and sown. But what shall we do with the crop?
Then Christiana said: Burn some, and make muck of the rest.
Then the Interpreter said again: Fruit, you see, is the thing you are looking for; and for want of it you condemn the crop to the fire and to be trodden underfoot. Take care that you do not condemn yourselves in the same way.
Then, as they were coming in from outside, they spotted a little robin with a large spider in his beak. So the Interpreter said: Look at this.
So they looked, and Mercy wondered at it; but Christiana said: What a disgrace this is to such a pretty little bird as the robin — a bird above most others, that likes to keep up a sort of friendship with people. I had always thought they lived on breadcrumbs or on other such harmless things. I think worse of him than I did.
The Interpreter then answered: This robin is an emblem, and a very apt one for a certain kind of believer. To look at, they are, like this robin, pretty in their song, their colour and their bearing. They also seem to have a very great love for believers who are sincere, and above everything to want to keep company with them, as if they could live on the good man's crumbs. They claim as well that this is why they frequent the houses of the godly and the appointed services of the Lord. But when they are on their own, like the robin, they can catch and gobble up spiders; they can change their diet, drink wickedness and swallow sin down like water.
So when they had come back into the house — because supper was still not ready — Christiana asked again whether the Interpreter would either show or tell them some other useful things. So the Interpreter began, and said:
The fatter the sow, the more she wants the mud. The fatter the ox, the more friskily he goes to the slaughter. And the healthier and stronger a man is, the more prone he is to evil.
There is a desire in women to go neat and fine; and it is a fitting thing to be adorned with what is of great value in God's sight.
It is easier to sit up one or two nights than to sit up a whole year together. So it is easier to make a good start at professing faith than to hold out to the end as one ought.
Every ship's master, in a storm, will willingly throw overboard whatever is of the smallest value in the vessel. But who would throw the best out first? Nobody but the man who does not fear God.
One leak will sink a ship, and one sin will destroy a sinner.
The man who forgets his friend is ungrateful to him; but the man who forgets his Saviour is merciless to himself.
The man who lives in sin and expects happiness afterwards is like a man who sows weeds and expects to fill his barn with wheat or barley.
If a man wants to live well, let him fetch his last day up close to him, and make it his constant companion.
Whispering, and the changing of people's minds, prove that sin is in the world.
If the world, which God thinks little of, is reckoned by men to be of such value — what is heaven, which God commends?
If this life, which comes with so many troubles, is one we are so unwilling to let go of, what must the life above be?
Everybody will loudly praise the goodness of men. But who is there who is properly moved by the goodness of God?
We seldom sit down to a meal without eating and leaving something. In the same way there is more merit and righteousness in Jesus Christ than the whole world has any need of.
When the Interpreter had finished, he took them out into his garden again and brought them to a tree whose inside was all rotten and gone, and yet it was still growing and had leaves on it.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: What does this mean?
This tree, said he, whose outside is fine and whose inside is rotten, is what a great many people in the garden of God may be compared to: people who speak up loudly for God with their mouths, but who in fact will do nothing for him; whose leaves are fine, but whose hearts are good for nothing but to be tinder for the devil's tinderbox.
Now supper was ready, the table laid, and everything set out on the board; so they sat down and ate, when somebody had given thanks. And the Interpreter usually entertained those who lodged with him with music at meals; so the musicians played. There was also somebody who sang, and he had a very fine voice. His song was this:
The Lord alone is my support, the one who gives me feed; how can I then want anything that I might stand in need?
When the song and the music were finished, the Interpreter asked Christiana what it was that first moved her to take up a pilgrim's life.
Christiana answered: First, the loss of my husband came into my mind, which grieved me deeply — but all that was only natural affection. Then, after that, my husband's troubles and his pilgrimage came into my mind, and also how churlishly I had behaved towards him over it. So guilt took hold of my mind, and would have drawn me into the pit; except that just at the right moment I had a dream about my husband's well-being, and a letter sent me by the King of the country where my husband lives, telling me to come to him. The dream and the letter together worked on my mind so much that they forced me onto this road.
Interpreter. But did you meet with no opposition before you left the house?
Christiana. Yes — a neighbour of mine, one Mrs. Timorous. She was related to the man who tried to persuade my husband to turn back for fear of the lions. She called me every kind of fool over what she called my intended desperate adventure, and urged everything she could to put me off it: the hardship and the troubles my husband met with on the road. But I got over all of that fairly well.
But a dream I had about two evil-looking creatures, who I thought were plotting how to make me come to grief on my journey — that has troubled me a great deal. Yes, it still runs in my mind and makes me afraid of everybody I meet, in case they should meet me to do me some harm and turn me off the road.
Indeed, I may tell my Lord, though I would not have everybody know it, that between here and the gate we came in by, we were both so badly attacked that we were made to cry out, Murder! And the two who made that attack on us were like the two I saw in my dream.
Then the Interpreter said: Your beginning is good; your latter end shall greatly increase.
So he turned to Mercy and said to her: And what moved you to come here, my dear?
Then Mercy blushed and trembled, and for a while stayed silent.
Interpreter. Then he said: Do not be afraid — only believe, and speak your mind.
Mercy. So she began, and said: Truly, sir, it is my lack of experience that makes me want to keep quiet; and that is what fills me with fears of falling short at the end. I cannot tell of visions and dreams as my friend Christiana can; nor do I know what it is to mourn over having refused the advice of good relations.
Interpreter. What was it, then, dear heart, that prevailed with you to do what you have done?
Mercy. Why — when our friend here was packing up to leave our town, another woman and I happened to go and see her. So we knocked at the door and went in. And when we were inside and saw what she was doing, we asked her what she meant by it. She said she had been sent for to go to her husband; and then she went on and told us how she had seen him in a dream, living in a wonderful place among immortals, wearing a crown, playing on a harp, eating and drinking at his Prince's table and singing praises to him for bringing him there.
Now while she was telling us these things, I thought my heart burned inside me. And I said in my heart: if this is true, I will leave my father and my mother and the land where I was born, and I will go along with Christiana if she will have me. So I asked her further whether these things were true, and whether she would let me go with her; because I could see now that there was no living any longer in our town without the danger of ruin.
And yet I came away with a heavy heart — not because I was unwilling to come away, but because so many of my relations were left behind. And I have come with all the longing of my heart, and I will go, if I may, along with Christiana, to her husband and his King.
Interpreter. Your setting out is good, because you have given credit to the truth. You are a Ruth, who out of the love she had for Naomi and for the Lord her God left father and mother and the land of her birth, to come out and go with a people she had never known before. "The Lord repay your work, and may a full reward be given you by the Lord God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to trust."
Now supper was over, and the beds were made ready. The women were put to sleep on their own, and the boys by themselves. And when Mercy was in bed she could not sleep for joy, because now her doubts about falling short at the last were further away from her than they had ever been. So she lay there blessing and praising God, who had shown her such favour.
In the morning they rose with the sun and got themselves ready to leave; but the Interpreter wanted them to wait a while, because, he said, you must go from here in proper order.
Then he said to the young woman who had first opened to them: Take them into the garden to the bath, and wash them there, and make them clean of the dirt they have picked up travelling.
Then Innocent took them and brought them into the garden to the bath. So she told them they must wash and be clean there, because that was what her Master wanted the women who called at his house on their way to do. Then they went in and washed — they and the boys and all — and they came out of that bath not only sweet and clean, but with new life and strength in their limbs. So when they came back in, they looked a great deal better than they had when they went out to wash.
When they had come back from the bath in the garden, the Interpreter took them and looked at them and said to them: Fair as the moon.
Then he called for the seal that is used to seal those who have been washed in his bath. So the seal was brought, and he set his mark on them, so that they might be recognized in the places they still had to go. Now the seal was the substance and sum of the Passover that the children of Israel ate when they came out of the land of Egypt; and the mark was set between their eyes. This seal added greatly to their beauty, because it was an ornament to their faces. It added to their dignity too, and made their faces more like the faces of angels.
Then the Interpreter said again to the young woman who was waiting on these women: Go into the vestry and fetch out clothes for these people.
So she went and fetched out white clothing and laid it down in front of him; and he told them to put it on. It was fine linen, white and clean.
When the women had been dressed like this, they seemed almost frightening to one another; because each could not see on herself the glory that she could see on the other. So now they began to think each other better than themselves. "You are lovelier than I am," said one; and "you are more beautiful than I am," said the other. The children too stood amazed at the state they had all been brought into.
The Interpreter then called for one of his manservants, a man called Great-heart, and told him to take sword and helmet and shield. And take these daughters of mine, he said, and escort them to the house called Beautiful, where they will rest next.
So Great-heart took up his weapons and went ahead of them; and the Interpreter said, God speed. Those who belonged to the household sent them off as well with many a good wish. So they went on their way, and sang:
This place has been our second stage; here we have heard and seen those good things which, from age to age, have hidden from others been. The dunghill-raker, spider, hen, the chicken too, to me have taught a lesson; let me then conformed to it be. The butcher, garden and the field, the robin and his bait, and the rotten tree as well all yield me argument of weight to move me now to watch and pray, to strive to be sincere, to take my cross up day by day and serve the Lord with fear.
Now I saw in my dream that they went on, with Great-heart walking in front of them; and so they came to the place where Christian's burden fell off his back and tumbled into a tomb. Here they paused, and here too they blessed God.
Now, said Christiana, it comes into my mind what was said to us at the gate — that we should have pardon by word and by deed: by word, that is, by the promise; and by deed, that is, in the way it was obtained. What the promise is, I know something about. But what it is to have pardon by deed, or in the way it was obtained — Mr. Great-heart, I imagine you know; so if you would, let us hear you speak about it.
Great-heart. Pardon by the deed done is pardon obtained by somebody, for somebody else who needs it — not obtained by the person pardoned, but, as another puts it, in the way in which I have obtained it. So then, to speak to the question more fully: the pardon that you and Mercy and these boys have received was obtained by another — namely by the one who let you in at the gate. And he obtained it in a double way: he has performed a righteousness to cover you, and spilt blood to wash you in.
Christiana. But if he parts with his righteousness to us, what will he have left for himself?
Great-heart. He has more righteousness than you need, or than he needs himself.
Christiana. Please show me how that can be.
Great-heart. With all my heart. But first I must say this by way of preface: the one we are about to speak of has no equal anywhere. He has two natures in one Person, plainly to be distinguished but impossible to divide. A righteousness belongs to each of these natures, and each righteousness is essential to that nature; so that you could as easily wipe out the nature itself as separate its justice or righteousness from it. Of these righteousnesses, then, we are not made partakers — they are not put on us so that we might be made just and live by them.
Besides these, there is a righteousness this Person has as the two natures are joined in one. And this is neither the righteousness of the Godhead as distinct from the manhood, nor the righteousness of the manhood as distinct from the Godhead, but a righteousness that consists in the union of both natures. It may properly be called the righteousness essential to his being fitted by God for the office of mediator, which he was to be entrusted with.
If he parts with the first righteousness, he parts with his Godhead. If he parts with the second, he parts with the purity of his manhood. If he parts with this third, he parts with the perfection that fits him for the office of mediation.
So he has another righteousness besides, which consists in performance, or obedience, to a revealed will. And that is the one he puts on sinners, and by which their sins are covered. Which is why he says, "As by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous."
Christiana. But are the other righteousnesses of no use at all to us?
Great-heart. Yes, they are. Because although they are essential to his natures and his office, and so cannot be handed over to anybody else, it is by virtue of them that the righteousness which justifies is effective for that purpose. The righteousness of his Godhead gives power to his obedience. The righteousness of his manhood gives his obedience the capacity to justify. And the righteousness that consists in the union of the two natures in his office gives that righteousness the authority to do the work it is appointed for.
So then, here is a righteousness that Christ as God has no need of, because he is God without it. Here is a righteousness that Christ as man has no need of to make him so, because he is perfect man without it. And again, here is a righteousness that Christ as God-and-man has no need of, because he is perfectly that without it.
Here, then, is a righteousness that Christ — as God, as man, as God-and-man — has no need of with reference to himself, and which he can therefore spare: a justifying righteousness that he does not need for himself, and therefore gives away. Which is why it is called "the gift of righteousness."
And this righteousness, since Christ Jesus the Lord has put himself under the law, must be given away. Because the law does not only bind the man who is under it "to do justly," but to practise charity. So he must, and by the law he ought, if he has two coats, to give one to the man who has none. Now our Lord does indeed have two coats — one for himself and one to spare; and so he freely gives one to those who have none.
And that, Christiana and Mercy and the rest of you here, is how your pardon comes by deed, or by another man's work. Your Lord Christ is the one who has done the work, and has given away what he worked for to the next poor beggar he meets.
But again: for pardon by deed, something has to be paid to God as a price, as well as something being prepared to cover us with. Sin has handed us over to the just curse of a righteous law; and from that curse we must be justified by way of redemption, a price being paid for the harm we have done. And this is by the blood of your Lord, who came and stood in your place and instead of you, and died your death for your offences. So he has ransomed you from your offences by blood, and covered your polluted and misshapen souls with righteousness. And for the sake of that, God passes you by, and will not harm you when he comes to judge the world.
Christiana. This is splendid. Now I see there was something to be learned from our being pardoned by word and by deed. Good Mercy, let us work at keeping this in mind; and my children, remember it too. But, sir — was this not the thing that made my good Christian's burden fall off his shoulders, and made him give three leaps for joy?
Great-heart. Yes. It was believing this that cut the cords which could not be cut by any other means; and it was to give him a proof of the power of it that he was allowed to carry his burden all the way to the Cross.
Christiana. I thought so. Because although my heart was light and joyful before, it is ten times lighter and more joyful now. And I am convinced, from what I have felt — and I have felt only a little of it as yet — that if the most heavily burdened man in the world were standing here and could see and believe as I do now, it would make his heart merrier and lighter still.
Great-heart. There is not only comfort in this, and the easing of a burden, when we see and think about these things; there is also a deep affection born in us by it. Because who could once think that pardon comes not only by promise but in this way, and not be moved by the way and the means of his own redemption — and so by the Man who has worked it out for him?
Christiana. True. It seems to me it makes my heart bleed to think that he should bleed for me. Oh, you loving One! Oh, you blessed One! You deserve to have me; you have bought me; you deserve to have all of me; you have paid ten thousand times more for me than I am worth!
No wonder this made the tears stand in my husband's eyes, and made him trudge along so nimbly. I am sure he wished me with him — and, wretch that I was, I let him go all alone.
Oh, Mercy, if only your father and mother were here! Yes, and Mrs. Timorous too. In fact I wish with all my heart that Madam Wanton were here as well. Surely, surely their hearts would be moved. Neither the fear of the one nor the strong appetites of the other could persuade them to go home again and refuse to become good pilgrims.
Great-heart. You are speaking now in the warmth of your feelings. Will it always be like this with you, do you think? Besides, this is not given to everybody who saw your Jesus bleed. There were people standing by who saw the blood run from his heart to the ground, and who were so far from this that instead of grieving they laughed at him, and instead of becoming his disciples hardened their hearts against him. So everything you have, my daughters, you have by a particular impression made in you by God as you contemplate what I have been telling you. Remember what you were told: that the hen gives her chicks no food by her everyday call. So what you have, you have by a special grace.
Now I saw further in my dream that they went on until they came to the place where Simple and Sloth and Presumption were lying asleep when Christian went past on pilgrimage — and there they were, hanged in irons a little way off on the other side.
Mercy. Then Mercy said to their guide and escort: Who are those three men? And what have they been hanged there for?
Great-heart. These three men were men of very bad character. They had no wish to be pilgrims themselves, and they hindered anybody else they could. They were all for laziness and folly themselves, and anybody they could talk round they made the same; and along with it they taught them to take for granted that they would come out all right in the end. They were asleep when Christian went by; and now, when you go by, they are hanged.
Mercy. But could they really persuade anybody to their way of thinking?
Great-heart. Yes. They turned several people off the road. There was Slow-pace, whom they persuaded to do as they did. They also succeeded with one Short-wind, and one No-heart, and one Linger-after-lust, and one Sleepyhead, and with a young woman called Dull, so that they turned off the road and became like them.
Besides that, they put about a bad report of your Lord, persuading others that he was a slave-driver. They also put about a bad report of the good land, saying it was not half as good as some people claimed. They began running his servants down too, and counting even the best of them meddlers, nuisances and busybodies. And further, they could call the bread of God husks, and the comforts of his children fancies, and the travelling and labour of pilgrims a waste of time.
Christiana. No, said Christiana — if they were like that, they shall never be mourned by me. They have only what they deserve. And I think it is a good thing that they hang so near the highway, so that others may see them and take warning. But would it not have been well if their crimes had been engraved on some plate of iron or brass and left here, on the very spot where they did their mischief, as a warning to other bad men?
Great-heart. So they are — as you may see for yourself, if you will step over to the wall.
Mercy. No, no — let them hang, and let their names rot, and let their crimes live for ever against them. I think it a great favour that they were hanged before we came here. Who knows what they might otherwise have done to poor women like us?
Then she turned it into a song, saying:
Now then, you three — hang there, and be a sign to all who shall against the truth combine. And let the man who comes behind fear this end if to the pilgrims he is not a friend. And you, my soul, of all such men beware who to holiness the opposers are.
So they went on until they came to the foot of the Hill Difficulty, where again their good friend Mr. Great-heart took the chance to tell them what happened there when Christian himself came past. So he took them first to the spring.
Look, said he, this is the spring Christian drank from before he went up this hill. It was clear and good then; but now it is dirty, from the feet of people who do not want pilgrims quenching their thirst here.
Mercy. At which Mercy said: Why so spiteful, I wonder?
But, said their guide, it will do well enough if you take it up and put it into a vessel that is clean and sound; because then the dirt will sink to the bottom and the water will come out of its own accord clearer. So Christiana and her companions had to do exactly that. They scooped it up and put it into an earthenware pot, and let it stand until the dirt had settled to the bottom, and then they drank it.
Next he showed them the two side roads at the foot of the hill, where Formalist and Hypocrisy lost themselves. And, said he, these are dangerous paths. Two men were thrown away here when Christian came by. And although, as you see, these ways have since been blocked off with chains and posts and a ditch, there are still people who would rather risk them than take the trouble to go up this hill.
Christiana. "The way of transgressors is hard." It is a wonder they can get into those ways at all without breaking their necks.
Great-heart. They will risk it. Yes — and if at any time one of the King's servants happens to see them and calls out to them and tells them they are on the wrong road, and warns them of the danger, they will answer him back abusively and say, "As for the word you have spoken to us in the name of the Lord, we will not listen to you; we will certainly do whatever comes out of our own mouths." And more than that: if you look a little further, you will see these ways have been made warning enough not only by the posts and the ditch and the chain but by being hedged up as well — and still they choose to go there.
Christiana. They are lazy. They do not like taking trouble; an uphill road is unpleasant to them. So what is written is fulfilled in them: "The way of the slothful man is like a hedge of thorns." Yes — they would rather walk into a trap than go up this hill and along the rest of this road to the city.
Then they set off and began to go up the hill, and up the hill they went. But before they got to the top Christiana began to pant, and said: I dare say this is a hill that makes you breathe. No wonder that people who love their comfort more than their souls choose themselves a smoother road.
Then Mercy said: I must sit down. And the smallest of the children began to cry.
Come, come, said Great-heart, do not sit down here — because a little further up is the Prince's shelter. Then he took the little boy by the hand and led him up to it.
When they had got to the shelter they were very glad to sit down, because they were all in a great sweat. Then Mercy said: How sweet rest is to people who have been working! And how good the Prince of pilgrims is, to provide resting places like this for them! I have heard a great deal about this shelter, but I never saw it before. But here let us take care not to fall asleep; because I have heard that that cost poor Christian dear.
Then Mr. Great-heart said to the little ones: Come, my fine boys, how are you? What do you think of going on pilgrimage now?
Sir, said the smallest, I was nearly beaten out of heart. But thank you for lending me a hand when I needed it. And I remember now what my mother has told me: that the way to heaven is like going up a ladder, and the way to hell is like going down a hill. But I would rather go up the ladder to life than down the hill to death.
Then Mercy said: But the proverb is that going downhill is easy.
But James said — for that was his name — The day is coming when, in my opinion, going downhill will be the hardest thing of all.
That is a good boy, said his master; you have given her the right answer. Then Mercy smiled, but the little boy went red.
Christiana. Come, said Christiana, will you eat something, just to sweeten your mouths while you sit here and rest your legs? Because I have a piece of pomegranate here that Mr. Interpreter put into my hand just as I was coming out of his door. He gave me a piece of honeycomb too, and a little bottle of cordial.
I thought he gave you something, said Mercy, because he called you aside.
Yes, so he did, said the other. But, said Christiana, it shall be as I said it would be when we first came from home: you shall have a share in every good thing I have, because you so willingly became my companion.
Then she shared it out and they ate — Mercy and the boys together. And Christiana said to Mr. Great-heart: Sir, will you have some as we are doing?
But he answered: You are going on pilgrimage, and I shall be going back shortly. Much good may what you have do you. At home I eat the same thing every day.
Now when they had eaten and drunk and chatted a little longer, their guide said to them: The day is wearing away; if you think it best, let us get ready to go.
So they got up to go, and the little boys went in front. But Christiana forgot to take her bottle of cordial with her, so she sent her little boy back to fetch it.
Then Mercy said: I think this is a losing place. Christian lost his scroll here, and here Christiana has left her bottle behind. Sir, what is the reason for it?
So their guide answered and said: The reason is sleep, or forgetfulness. Some sleep when they should be keeping awake, and some forget when they should be remembering. And this is exactly why, at the resting places, pilgrims often come off losers in one thing or another. Pilgrims ought to keep watch, and to remember what they have already received, precisely when they are enjoying themselves most; and for want of doing that, their rejoicing often ends in tears and their sunshine in a cloud. Witness Christian's own story in this place.
When they had come to the spot where Mistrust and Timorous met Christian to persuade him to turn back for fear of the lions, they saw what looked like a scaffold; and in front of it, towards the road, a broad plate with a verse written on it, and underneath the reason for that scaffold being put up in that place. The verse was this:
Let the man who sees this scaffold take good heed unto his heart and tongue; for if he does not, here he'll come to speed as some did long ago.
And the words underneath the verse were: "This scaffold was built for the punishment of those who, through Timorousness or Mistrust, are afraid to go further on pilgrimage. On this scaffold both Mistrust and Timorous were burned through the tongue with a hot iron, for trying to hinder Christian on his journey."
Then Mercy said: This is very like what the Beloved says: "What shall be given to you, or what shall be done to you, you false tongue? Sharp arrows of the mighty, with coals of juniper."
So they went on until they came within sight of the lions. Now Mr. Great-heart was a strong man, so he was not afraid of a lion. But when they came up to the place where the lions were, the boys who had been walking in front were glad to shrink back behind, because they were afraid of the lions. So they stepped back and went behind.
At this their guide smiled and said: How now, my boys — do you like to go in front when no danger is coming, and like to come behind as soon as the lions appear?
Now as they went up, Mr. Great-heart drew his sword, meaning to force a way through for the Pilgrims in spite of the lions. Then somebody appeared who had apparently taken it on himself to reinforce the lions; and he said to the Pilgrims' guide: What is the reason for your coming here? Now the name of that man was Grim, or Bloody-man, because of the pilgrims he had killed; and he was of the race of the giants.
Great-heart. Then the Pilgrims' guide said: These women and children are going on pilgrimage. This is the road they have to take, and take it they shall, in spite of you and your lions.
Grim. This is not their road, and they shall not go on it. I have come out to stop them, and I will back the lions to that end.
Now, to tell the truth, on account of the fierceness of the lions and the grim bearing of the man who backed them, this road had lately gone very little used, and was almost all overgrown with grass.
Christiana. Then Christiana said: Though the highways have gone unused until now, and though travellers have been made in the past to walk by side paths, it must not be so now that I have risen. Now "I am risen a mother in Israel."
Grim. Then he swore by the lions that it should be so, and told them to turn aside, because they should have no passage there.
Great-heart. But their guide went straight at Grim, and laid into him so hard with his sword that he forced him back.
Grim. Then the man who was trying to back the lions said: Will you kill me on my own ground?
Great-heart. It is the King's highway we are on, and it is on his road that you have placed your lions. But these women and these children, weak as they are, shall hold on their way in spite of your lions.
And with that he gave him another downright blow and brought him to his knees. With that blow he also broke his helmet, and with the next he cut off an arm. Then the giant roared so hideously that his voice frightened the women — and yet they were glad to see him sprawling on the ground.
Now the lions were chained, so of themselves they could do nothing. So when old Grim, who had meant to back them, was dead, Mr. Great-heart said to the Pilgrims: Come on now and follow me, and no harm shall come to you from the lions.
So on they went — but the women trembled as they passed them, and the boys looked as if they would die of it. Still, they all got past without any further harm.
Now they were within sight of the Porter's Lodge, and they soon came up to it; but they made all the more haste after this to get there, because it is dangerous travelling in that place at night.
So when they had come to the gate, the guide knocked, and the Porter called out: Who is there? But as soon as the guide had said, It is I, he knew his voice and came down — because the guide had often been there before, escorting pilgrims.
When he had come down he opened the gate; and seeing the guide standing right in front of it, but not seeing the women, because they were behind him, he said: How now, Mr. Great-heart, what is your business here so late at night?
I have brought some pilgrims here, said he, who by my Lord's command are to lodge here. I would have been here some time ago if I had not been opposed by the giant who used to back the lions; but after a long and wearing fight with him I have cut him off, and have brought the Pilgrims here safely.
Porter. Will you not come in and stay till morning?
Great-heart. No, I shall go back to my Lord tonight.
Christiana. Oh, sir, I do not know how to be willing for you to leave us in the middle of our pilgrimage. You have been so faithful and so loving to us; you have fought so bravely for us; you have been so warm-hearted in advising us. I shall never forget your kindness to us.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: Oh, if only we could have your company to the end of our journey! How can poor women like us hold out on a road as full of trouble as this one, without a friend and a defender?
James. Then James, the youngest of the boys, said: Please, sir, let yourself be persuaded to come with us and help us — because we are so weak, and the road is so dangerous.
Great-heart. I am at my Lord's command. If he assigns me to be your guide the whole way, I will gladly attend on you. But here you slipped up at the start: when he told me to come this far with you, you should have begged him for me to go the whole way with you, and he would have granted your request. As things are, though, I must leave. And so — good Christiana, Mercy, and my fine children — goodbye.
Then the Porter, Mr. Watchful, asked Christiana what country she came from and who her family were; and she said: I have come from the City of Destruction. I am a widow, and my husband is dead. His name was Christian, the Pilgrim.
What! said the Porter — was he your husband?
Yes, said she; and these are his children. And this, she said, pointing to Mercy, is one of my townswomen.
Then the Porter rang his bell, as he is accustomed to do at such times, and one of the young women came to the door, whose name was Humble-mind. And the Porter said to her: Go and tell them inside that Christiana, the wife of Christian, and her children, have come here on pilgrimage.
So she went in and told them. But oh, what a noise of gladness there was inside, when the young woman had barely got the words out of her mouth! So they came hurrying to the Porter — because Christiana was still standing at the door. Then some of the most serious among them said to her: Come in, Christiana; come in, wife of that good man; come in, blessed woman; come in, and all who are with you.
So she went in, and her children and her companions followed her. Now when they had gone in, they were taken into a very large room and told to sit down; so they sat down, and the heads of the house were called to see the guests and welcome them. Then they came in, and understanding who they were, greeted them each with a kiss and said: Welcome, you vessels of the grace of God; welcome to us, your friends.
Now because it was getting late, and because the Pilgrims were tired from their journey and faint as well from the sight of the fight and the terrible lions, they asked to get ready for bed as soon as they could.
No, said the household — refresh yourselves first with a bite of food. Because they had prepared a lamb for them, with the sauce that traditionally goes with it; the Porter had heard beforehand that they were coming and had told those inside.
So when they had eaten and finished their prayers with a psalm, they asked to go to their rest. But, said Christiana, if we may be so bold as to choose, let us have the room that was my husband's when he was here.
So they took them up there, and they all slept in one room. When they were settled, Christiana and Mercy fell into conversation about suitable things.
Christiana. I little thought once, when my husband went on pilgrimage, that I should ever follow him.
Mercy. And you thought as little of lying in his bed, and resting in his room, as you are doing now.
Christiana. And far less did I ever think of seeing his face with any comfort, or of worshipping the Lord the King alongside him. And yet now I believe I shall.
Mercy. Listen! Do you not hear a noise?
Christiana. Yes. I believe it is a sound of music, for joy that we are here.
Mercy. Wonderful! Music in the house, music in the heart, and music in heaven too, for joy that we are here.
So they talked a while, and then went to sleep. And in the morning, when they woke, Christiana said to Mercy:
Christiana. What was it that made you laugh in your sleep last night? I suppose you were dreaming.
Mercy. So I was, and a sweet dream it was. But are you sure I laughed?
Christiana. Yes, you laughed heartily. But please, Mercy, tell me your dream.
Mercy. I dreamed that I was sitting all alone in a lonely place, lamenting the hardness of my heart. Now I had not been sitting there long when it seemed a great many people gathered round to look at me and hear what I was saying. So they listened, and I went on lamenting the hardness of my heart. At this some of them laughed at me, and some called me a fool, and some began to push me about.
At that I thought I looked up and saw somebody coming towards me with wings. So he came straight to me and said, Mercy, what is the matter with you? And when he had heard my complaint, he said, "Peace be to you." He also wiped my eyes with his handkerchief and dressed me in silver and gold. He put a chain round my neck and earrings in my ears and a beautiful crown on my head. Then he took me by the hand and said, Mercy, come after me.
So he went up and I followed, until we came to a golden gate. Then he knocked; and when those inside had opened, the man went in and I followed him up to a throne, on which one sat; and he said to me, Welcome, daughter. The place looked bright and glittering, like the stars — or rather like the sun. And I thought I saw your husband there.
So I woke up from my dream. But did I really laugh?
Christiana. Laugh! Yes, and well you might, to see yourself so well off. Because you must allow me to tell you that I believe it was a good dream, and that just as you have begun to find the first part of it true, so you will find the second part true at last. "God speaks once, yes twice, and yet man does not perceive it: in a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on men, in their slumbering on the bed." We do not need to lie awake in bed to talk with God. He can visit us while we sleep, and make us hear his voice then. Our heart often wakes while we sleep, and God can speak to it, by words or by proverbs or by signs and comparisons, quite as well as if we were awake.
Mercy. Well, I am glad of my dream; because I hope before long to see it come true, and to be made to laugh again.
Christiana. I think it is high time we got up and found out what we are to do.
Mercy. Please, if they invite us to stay a while, let us gladly accept the offer. I am all the more willing to stay a while here so as to get better acquainted with these young women. It seems to me that Prudence and Piety and Charity have very fine, serious faces.
Christiana. We shall see what they do.
So when they were up and dressed, they came down; and they asked each other how they had slept, and whether it had been comfortable.
Mercy. Very good, said Mercy. It was one of the best nights' lodging I ever had in my life.
Then Prudence and Piety said: If you can be persuaded to stay here a while, you shall have whatever the house can provide.
Charity. Yes — and with a very good will, said Charity.
So they agreed, and stayed there about a month or more, and did each other a great deal of good. And because Prudence wanted to see how Christiana had brought her children up, she asked her permission to test them. So Christiana freely consented. Then she began with the youngest, whose name was James.
Prudence. And she said: Come, James — can you tell me who made you?
James. God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.
Prudence. Good boy. And can you tell me who saves you?
James. God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.
Prudence. Still a good boy. But how does God the Father save you?
James. By his grace.
Prudence. How does God the Son save you?
James. By his righteousness, his death, his blood and his life.
Prudence. And how does God the Holy Spirit save you?
James. By enlightening me, by making me new, and by keeping me.
Then Prudence said to Christiana: You are to be praised for bringing your children up like this. I suppose I need not ask the others these questions, since the youngest of them can answer them so well. So now I will turn to the next youngest.
Prudence. Then she said: Come, Joseph — for that was his name — will you let me question you?
Joseph. With all my heart.
Prudence. What is man?
Joseph. A creature with reason, made so by God, as my brother said.
Prudence. What is implied by the word "saved"?
Joseph. That man, by sin, has brought himself into a state of captivity and misery.
Prudence. What is implied by his being saved by the Trinity?
Joseph. That sin is so great and mighty a tyrant that nobody but God can pull us out of its grip; and that God is so good and loving to man as actually to pull him out of that miserable state.
Prudence. What is God's purpose in saving poor men?
Joseph. The glory of his name, and of his grace and justice; and the everlasting happiness of his creature.
Prudence. Who are the ones who must be saved?
Joseph. Those who accept his salvation.
Prudence. Good boy, Joseph. Your mother has taught you well, and you have listened to what she has said to you.
Then Prudence said to Samuel, who was the second eldest:
Prudence. Come, Samuel — are you willing for me to question you as well?
Samuel. Yes, indeed, if you please.
Prudence. What is heaven?
Samuel. A place and a state most blessed, because God lives there.
Prudence. What is hell?
Samuel. A place and a state most wretched, because it is the dwelling place of sin, and the devil, and death.
Prudence. Why would you want to go to heaven?
Samuel. So that I may see God and serve him without ever getting tired; so that I may see Christ and love him everlastingly; and so that I may have that fullness of the Holy Spirit in me that I cannot possibly enjoy here.
Prudence. A very good boy too, and one who has learned well.
Then she turned to the eldest, whose name was Matthew, and said to him: Come, Matthew, shall I question you as well?
Matthew. With a very good will.
Prudence. Then I ask you: was there ever anything that existed before God?
Matthew. No — because God is eternal; nor is there anything besides himself that existed before the beginning of the first day. "For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them."
Prudence. What do you think of the Bible?
Matthew. It is the holy Word of God.
Prudence. Is there nothing written in it but what you understand?
Matthew. Yes — a great deal.
Prudence. What do you do when you come to places in it that you do not understand?
Matthew. I consider that God is wiser than I am. And I pray that he will be pleased to let me know everything in it that he knows will be for my good.
Prudence. What do you believe about the resurrection of the dead?
Matthew. I believe they shall rise, the same as were buried — the same in their nature, though not in their decay. And I believe this on two grounds: first, because God has promised it; and second, because he is able to do it.
Then Prudence said to the boys: You must go on listening to your mother, because she can teach you more. You must also pay careful attention to any good talk you hear from others, because it is for your sakes that they say good things. Observe as well, and carefully, what the heavens and the earth teach you; but above all be much occupied in meditating on that Book which was the cause of your father's becoming a pilgrim. I for my part, my children, will teach you what I can while you are here, and shall be glad if you will ask me questions that tend to godly building up.
Now by the time these Pilgrims had been at this place a week, Mercy had a visitor who claimed to have some goodwill towards her; and his name was Mr. Brisk — a man of some breeding, who made a show of religion, but a man who stuck very close to the world. So he came once or twice, or more, to Mercy, and offered her his love.
Now Mercy had a lovely face, and was all the more attractive for it. And her disposition was always to be busy at something; because when she had nothing to do for herself she would be making stockings and clothes for other people, and would give them away to those who needed them. And Mr. Brisk, not knowing where or how she disposed of what she made, seemed greatly taken with her, because he found she was never idle. I will warrant her a good housewife, he said to himself.
Mercy then mentioned the business to the young women of the house, and asked them about him, because they knew him better than she did. So they told her that he was a very busy young man who made a show of religion, but who was, they were afraid, a stranger to the power of what was good.
In that case, said Mercy, I will not look at him again. Because I mean never to have anything hung round my soul to drag on it.
Prudence then replied that there was no need to give him any great discouragement; her carrying on as she had begun, working for the poor, would soon cool his ardour.
So the next time he came, he found her at her old work, making things for the poor. Then he said: What — always at it?
Yes, said she — either for myself or for other people.
And how much can you earn in a day? said he.
I do these things, said she, "so that I may be rich in good works, laying up in store a good foundation for the time to come, so that I may lay hold on eternal life."
Why, tell me — what do you do with them? said he.
Clothe the naked, said she.
At that his face fell. So he gave up coming to see her; and when he was asked the reason why, he said that Mercy was a pretty girl, but troubled with awkward notions.
When he had left her, Prudence said: Did I not tell you Mr. Brisk would soon give you up? Yes — and he will spread a bad report of you as well. Because for all his pretence of religion and his apparent love for Mercy, still, Mercy and he are of such different tempers that I do not believe they will ever come together.
Mercy. I might have had husbands before now, though I never mentioned it to anybody. But they were the sort who did not like my character, though none of them ever found fault with my person. So they and I could not agree.
Prudence. Mercy in our day is little valued, except as a word. As for the practice of it, which is what your character sets out, there are very few who can put up with it.
Mercy. Well, said Mercy, if nobody will have me, I will die unmarried; or else my character shall be a husband to me. Because I cannot change my nature; and to have somebody who runs across me in this, I am resolved never to allow as long as I live. I had a sister called Bountiful who married one of these boors; and he and she could never agree. But because my sister was determined to go on as she had begun — that is, to show kindness to the poor — her husband first denounced her publicly at the market cross, and then turned her out of doors.
Prudence. And yet he was a professing believer, I dare say.
Mercy. Yes, the sort of believer he was. And the world is full of that sort now; but I will have none of them.
Now Matthew, Christiana's eldest son, fell ill; and his illness was severe, because he was in great pain in the stomach, so that at times he was doubled up as though he were being pulled double. There lived not far from there one Mr. Skill, an old and well-regarded physician. So Christiana asked for him, and they sent for him, and he came.
When he had come into the room and observed the boy a little, he concluded that he was suffering from severe cramps. Then he said to his mother: What has Matthew been eating lately?
Eating? said Christiana. Nothing but what is wholesome.
The physician answered: This boy has been meddling with something that is lying undigested in his stomach, and that will not shift without help. And I tell you, he must be purged or he will die.
Samuel. Then Samuel said: Mother, mother — what was it my brother gathered up and ate as soon as we had come from the gate at the head of this road? You remember there was an orchard on the left hand, on the other side of the wall, and some of the trees hung over the wall, and my brother pulled the branches down and ate.
Christiana. True, my child, said Christiana. He did take some and eat it. Naughty boy that he was, I told him off, and still he would eat it.
Mr. Skill. I knew he had eaten something that was not wholesome food; and that food — that fruit — is the most harmful of the lot. It is the fruit of Beelzebub's orchard. I am astonished nobody warned you about it. A great many have died of it.
Christiana. Then Christiana began to cry, and said: Oh, the naughty boy! And oh, the careless mother! What am I to do for my son?
Mr. Skill. Come, do not be too downcast. The boy may be well again; but he must be purged, and made to be sick.
Christiana. Please, sir, use the very utmost of your skill on him, whatever it costs.
Mr. Skill. No — I hope I shall be reasonable.
So he made him a purge; but it was too weak. It was said to be made of the blood of a goat, the ashes of a heifer, and some juice of hyssop. When Mr. Skill saw that this purge was too weak, he made him one that would do the job: it was made ex carne et sanguine Christi — out of the flesh and blood of Christ. (You know physicians give their patients strange medicines.) And it was made up into pills with a promise or two, and a proportionate quantity of salt. Now he was to take them three at a time, on an empty stomach, in half a quarter of a pint of the tears of repentance.
When this medicine had been prepared and brought to the boy, he was unwilling to take it, though he was torn with the cramps as if he were being pulled to pieces.
Come, come, said the physician, you must take it.
It turns my stomach, said the boy.
I must have you take it, said his mother.
I shall be sick and bring it up again, said the boy.
Please, sir, said Christiana to Mr. Skill, how does it taste?
It has no bad taste, said the doctor. And with that she touched one of the pills with the tip of her tongue.
Oh, Matthew, said she, this medicine is sweeter than honey. If you love your mother, if you love your brothers, if you love Mercy, if you love your own life — take it.
So with much difficulty, after a short prayer for God's blessing on it, he took it, and it worked kindly with him. It made him purge; it made him sleep and rest quietly; it put him into a good warmth and a breaking sweat, and it rid him entirely of his cramps. So in a short time he got up and walked about with a stick, and would go from room to room and talk with Prudence and Piety and Charity about his illness and how he was cured.
So when the boy was well, Christiana asked Mr. Skill: Sir, what will satisfy you for your trouble and your care of my child?
And he said: You must pay the Master of the College of Physicians, according to the rules laid down for such cases.
Christiana. But, sir, said she, what else is this pill good for?
Mr. Skill. It is a universal pill. It is good against all the diseases that Pilgrims are liable to; and when it is properly prepared it will keep good for ever.
Christiana. Please, sir, make me up twelve boxes of them; because if I can get these, I will never take any other medicine.
Mr. Skill. These pills are good for preventing diseases as well as for curing them once you are ill. Yes, and I dare say it and stand by it: that if a man will only use this medicine as he should, it will make him live for ever. But, good Christiana, you must give these pills no other way than I have prescribed; because if you do, they will do no good.
So he gave Christiana medicine for herself and her boys and for Mercy, and told Matthew to take care how he ate any more green plums; and he kissed them and went on his way.
You were told earlier that Prudence had told the boys that whenever they liked they should ask her questions that might do them good, and that she would say something to them.
Matthew. Then Matthew, who had been ill, asked her why medicine is mostly bitter to our tongues.
Prudence. To show how unwelcome the Word of God, and its effects, are to a worldly heart.
Matthew. Why does medicine, if it does us good, purge us and make us sick?
Prudence. To show that the Word, when it works effectively, cleans out the heart and mind. Because look — what the one does to the body, the other does to the soul.
Matthew. What should we learn from seeing the flame of our fire go upwards, and from seeing the beams and sweet influences of the sun strike downwards?
Prudence. From the going up of the fire we are taught to rise to heaven by hot and eager desires. And from the sun sending its heat and beams and sweet influences downwards, we are taught that the Saviour of the world, though he is high, reaches down with his grace and love to us below.
Matthew. Where do the clouds get their water?
Prudence. Out of the sea.
Matthew. What may we learn from that?
Prudence. That ministers should fetch their teaching from God.
Matthew. Why do they empty themselves out on the earth?
Prudence. To show that ministers should give out to the world what they know of God.
Matthew. Why is the rainbow caused by the sun?
Prudence. To show that the covenant of God's grace is confirmed to us in Christ.
Matthew. Why do the springs come to us from the sea, through the earth?
Prudence. To show that the grace of God comes to us through the body of Christ.
Matthew. Why do some of the springs rise on the tops of high hills?
Prudence. To show that the spirit of grace will spring up in some who are great and powerful, as well as in many who are poor and lowly.
Matthew. Why does the fire take hold on the candlewick?
Prudence. To show that unless grace catches light on the heart, there will be no true light of life in us.
Matthew. Why are the wick and the tallow and everything used up to keep the candle burning?
Prudence. To show that body and soul and everything should be at the service of, and should spend themselves to keep in good condition, that grace of God which is in us.
Matthew. Why does the pelican pierce her own breast with her beak?
Prudence. To feed her young with her own blood, and by that to show that Christ the blessed one so loves his young, his people, as to save them from death with his blood.
Matthew. What may one learn from hearing the cock crow?
Prudence. Learn to remember Peter's sin and Peter's repentance. The cock's crowing also shows that day is coming on; so let the crowing of the cock put you in mind of that last and terrible day of judgment.
Now about this time their month was up; so they let those of the house know that it was time for them to be up and going. Then Joseph said to his mother: It would be a good idea if you did not forget to send to Mr. Interpreter's house, to ask him to grant that Mr. Great-heart may be sent to us, so that he can be our escort for the rest of the way.
Good boy, said she — I had almost forgotten.
So she drew up a petition and asked Mr. Watchful, the Porter, to send it by some suitable man to her good friend Mr. Interpreter. And when it had come and he had seen the contents of the petition, he said to the messenger: Go and tell them I will send him.
When the household where Christiana was saw that they meant to go on, they called the whole house together to give thanks to their King for sending them such profitable guests. And when that was done they said to Christiana: And shall we not show you something, as it is our custom to do with pilgrims, that you may think about when you are on the road?
So they took Christiana and her children and Mercy into the inner room and showed them one of the apples that Eve ate, and that she also gave to her husband, and for the eating of which they were both turned out of Paradise; and asked her what she thought it was.
Then Christiana said: It is food, or poison — I do not know which.
So they explained the matter to her, and she held up her hands in amazement.
Then they took her to a place and showed her Jacob's ladder. Now at that moment there were some angels going up it. So Christiana looked and looked to see the angels going up, and so did the rest of the company. Then they were about to go on to another place to show them something else, but James said to his mother: Please ask them to stay here a little longer, because this is a wonderful sight.
So they turned back, and stood feeding their eyes on such a lovely view.
After this they took them to a place where a golden anchor hung up; and they told Christiana to take it down, because, they said, you shall have it with you — you absolutely must have it, so that you may lay hold on what is within the veil and stand steady, in case you meet with stormy weather. So they were glad of it.
Then they took them to the mountain where Abraham our father offered up his son Isaac, and showed them the altar, the wood, the fire and the knife; because they are still to be seen there to this very day. When they had seen it, they lifted up their hands and blessed themselves and said: Oh, what a man Abraham was, for love of his Master and denial of himself!
After they had shown them all these things, Prudence took them into the dining room, where there stood a fine pair of virginals; and she played on them, and turned everything she had shown them into this excellent song:
Eve's apple we have showed to you — of that one, be aware; you have seen Jacob's ladder too, and the angels going there. An anchor you've received as well; but let not these suffice until, with Abraham, you have given your best as sacrifice.
Now about this time somebody knocked at the door; so the Porter opened, and there was Mr. Great-heart. And when he had come in, what joy there was! Because it all came fresh into their minds again, how only a little while ago he had killed old Grim Bloody-man the giant and delivered them from the lions.
Then Mr. Great-heart said to Christiana and to Mercy: My Lord has sent each of you a bottle of wine, and some parched corn as well, together with a couple of pomegranates. He has also sent the boys some figs and raisins, to refresh you on your road.
Then they set themselves to their journey, and Prudence and Piety went along with them. When they came to the gate, Christiana asked the Porter whether anybody had gone by lately. He said no — only one, some time ago, who also told me that there had lately been a great robbery on the King's highway further on. But, he said, the thieves have been caught, and will shortly be tried for their lives.
Then Christiana and Mercy were afraid; but Matthew said: Mother, fear nothing, as long as Mr. Great-heart is going with us and is our escort.
Then Christiana said to the Porter: Sir, I am very much obliged to you for all the kindnesses you have shown me since I came here, and for being so loving and kind to my children. I do not know how to repay your kindness; so please, as a token of my respect for you, accept this small offering.
So she put a gold coin into his hand; and he made her a low bow and said: Let your clothing be always white, and let your head lack no oil. Let Mercy live and not die, and let her works not be few.
And to the boys he said: Run from the appetites of youth, and follow after godliness in the company of those who are serious and wise; so you will put gladness into your mother's heart, and win the praise of everybody who is sober-minded.
So they thanked the Porter and left.
Now I saw in my dream that they went on until they had come to the brow of the hill; where Piety, suddenly remembering, cried out: Oh dear — I have forgotten what I meant to give Christiana and her companions. I will go back and fetch it.
So she ran and fetched it. And while she was gone, Christiana thought she heard, in a grove a little way off on the right hand, the most exquisite melodious note, with words something like these:
Through all my life your favour is so freely shown to me, that in your house for evermore my dwelling-place shall be.
And still listening, she thought she heard another answer it, saying:
And why? The Lord our God is good, his mercy is for ever sure; his truth at all times firmly stood, and shall from age to age endure.
So Christiana asked Prudence what it was that made those exquisite notes.
They are, said she, our country birds. They only sing these notes now and then, except in the spring, when the flowers come out and the sun shines warm; and then you may hear them all day long. I often go out to listen to them, said she; and we often keep them tame in the house too. They are very fine company for us when we are low, and they make the woods and groves and lonely places into places you want to be.
By this time Piety had come back; so she said to Christiana: Look here — I have brought you an outline of all the things you have seen at our house, which you can look at when you find yourself forgetting, and so call those things back to mind for your building up and your comfort.
Now they began to go down the hill into the Valley of Humiliation. It was a steep hill and the path was slippery; but they were very careful, so they got down well enough.
When they were down in the Valley, Piety said to Christiana: This is the place where Christian your husband met with the foul fiend Apollyon, and where they had that dreadful fight. You cannot but have heard about it. But take courage — as long as you have Mr. Great-heart here to be your guide and escort, we hope you will fare the better for it.
So when these two had committed the Pilgrims to their guide's care, he went on ahead and they followed after.
Great-heart. Then Mr. Great-heart said: We need not be so afraid of this Valley, because there is nothing here to hurt us unless we bring it on ourselves. It is true that Christian met Apollyon here, and had a hard fight with him; but that fight was the fruit of the slips he made coming down the hill. Because those who slip up there must expect fights down here. And that is how this Valley has got such a bad name. Because the ordinary people, when they hear that some frightening thing has happened to somebody in a certain place, take the view that the place is haunted by some foul fiend or evil spirit — when in fact it is on account of their own doing that such things happen to them there.
This Valley of Humiliation is in itself as fruitful a place as any the crow flies over. And I am convinced that if we could hit on it, we might find something hereabouts that would give us an account of why Christian was so hard beset in this place.
Then James said to his mother: Look, over there is a pillar, and it seems to have something written on it. Let us go and see what it is.
So they went, and found written there: "Let Christian's slips, before he came here, and the battles he met with in this place, be a warning to those who come after."
There, said their guide — did I not tell you there was something round here that would give a hint as to why Christian was so hard beset in this place?
Then turning to Christiana, he said: This is no disgrace to Christian, any more than to a great many others whose luck and lot were the same as his; because it is easier going up this hill than down it, and that can be said of very few hills anywhere in the world. But we will leave the good man; he is at rest, and he had a splendid victory over his enemy. May the one who lives above grant that we fare no worse than he did, when we come to be tested.
But let us come back to this Valley of Humiliation. It is the best and most useful piece of ground in all these parts. It is rich soil, and, as you see, consists mostly of meadow; and if a man came here in the summer, as we are doing now, and knew nothing about it beforehand, and took pleasure in what he could see, he would find plenty here to delight him. Look how green this Valley is, and how beautiful with lilies. I have known many working men, too, who have made good estates in this Valley of Humiliation — "because God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble" — because it really is very fruitful soil, and brings forth by handfuls.
Some have even wished that the nearest way to their Father's house ran through here, so that they would be troubled no more with hills or mountains to climb. But the way is the way, and there is an end of it.
Now as they were going along and talking, they spotted a boy minding his father's sheep. The boy was in very poor clothes, but had a fresh and handsome face; and as he sat there by himself, he sang.
Listen, said Mr. Great-heart, to what the shepherd's boy is saying. So they listened, and he said:
He that is down needs fear no fall; he that is low, no pride; he that is humble ever shall have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have, little be it or much; and, Lord, contentment still I crave, because you save all such. Fullness to such is a burden as go on pilgrimage; here little, and hereafter bliss, is best from age to age.
Then the guide said: Do you hear him? I will venture to say that this boy lives a merrier life, and carries more of that herb called heart's-ease in his chest, than the man dressed in silk and velvet. But let us go on with what we were saying.
In this Valley our Lord used to have his country house. He loved to be here. He loved to walk in these meadows too, because he found the air pleasant. Besides which, here a man is free from the noise and the rushing about of this life. Every other place is full of noise and confusion; only the Valley of Humiliation is empty and quiet. Here a man will not be hindered and held back in his thinking, as he is apt to be elsewhere. This is a Valley that nobody walks in but those who love a pilgrim's life. And although Christian had the bad luck to meet Apollyon here and to have a brisk encounter with him, still, I have to tell you that in earlier times men have met angels here, have found pearls here, and have found the words of life in this place.
Did I say our Lord had his country house here in the old days, and that he loved to walk here? I will add this: that in this place, and to the people who live and go about these grounds, he has left a yearly income, to be faithfully paid them at set seasons, for their keep along the way and for their further encouragement to go on with their pilgrimage.
Samuel. Now as they went on, Samuel said to Mr. Great-heart: Sir, I gather it was in this Valley that my father and Apollyon had their battle. But whereabouts was the fight? Because I can see this Valley is a large one.
Great-heart. Your father had that battle with Apollyon at a place ahead of us, in a narrow passage just beyond Forgetful Green. And that place really is the most dangerous spot in all these parts. Because if at any time pilgrims run into a hard knock, it is when they forget what favours they have received and how little they deserve them. This is the place where others have been hard pressed as well. But more about the place when we come to it; because I am fairly sure that to this day there is either some sign of the battle left, or some monument to testify that such a battle was fought there.
Mercy. Then Mercy said: I think I am as well in this Valley as I have been anywhere else in the whole of our journey. It seems to me the place suits my spirit. I love being in places like this, where there is no rattling of coaches or rumbling of wheels. It seems to me that here one may, without much disturbance, think about what one is, and where one came from, and what one has done, and what the King has called one to. Here one may think, and break at heart, and melt in one's spirit, until one's eyes become like "the fishpools of Heshbon." Those who go rightly through this Valley of Weeping make it a well, and the rain that God sends down from heaven on those who are here fills the pools too. This is the Valley out of which the King will give his people their vineyards; and those who go through it shall sing, as Christian did, for all that he met with Apollyon.
Great-heart. It is true, said their guide. I have gone through this Valley many a time, and I was never better than when I was here. I have also been an escort to a number of pilgrims, and they have said the same. "To this man will I look," says the King, "even to him who is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembles at my Word."
Now they came to the place where the battle we spoke of was fought. Then the guide said to Christiana, her children and Mercy: This is the place. On this ground Christian stood, and up there came Apollyon against him. And look — did I not tell you? Here is some of your husband's blood on these stones to this day. See too how here and there you can still make out on the ground some of the splinters of Apollyon's broken darts. See how they beat the ground with their feet as they fought, each holding his position against the other; and how with their glancing blows they split the very stones to pieces.
Christian really did play the man here, and showed himself as tough as Hercules himself would have been if he had been standing there. When Apollyon was beaten, he made his retreat into the next Valley, which is called the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and which we shall come to shortly.
Look — over there stands a monument as well, with this battle engraved on it, and Christian's victory, to his fame through all the ages.
So, because it stood right by the roadside in front of them, they stepped over to it and read the writing, which word for word was this:
Close by here a battle was fought, most strange, and yet most true; Christian and Apollyon sought each other to subdue. The man so bravely played the man, he made the fiend to fly; of which a monument I stand, the same to testify.
When they had gone past this place, they came to the borders of the Shadow of Death. And this Valley was longer than the other, and a place most strangely haunted with evil things, as a great many can testify. But these women and children got through it the better, because they had daylight, and because Mr. Great-heart was their escort.
When they had entered this Valley, they thought they heard a groaning, like the groaning of dead men — a very great groaning. They thought too that they could hear words of lamentation spoken, as of people in the last extremes of torment. These things made the boys quake, and the women looked pale and drawn; but their guide told them to take comfort.
So they went on a little further, and they thought they felt the ground begin to shake under them, as if there were some hollow place there. They heard a kind of hissing too, like snakes — but nothing had appeared as yet.
Then the boys said: Are we not at the end of this dismal place yet?
But again the guide told them to take courage, and to watch their feet — in case, he said, you get caught in some trap.
Now James began to feel sick; but I think the cause of it was fear. So his mother gave him some of that glass of cordial that had been given her at the Interpreter's house, and three of the pills that Mr. Skill had prepared, and the boy began to revive.
So they went on, until they came to about the middle of the Valley; and then Christiana said: I think I see something over there on the road ahead of us — a thing of such a shape as I have never seen.
Joseph. Then Joseph said: Mother, what is it?
An ugly thing, child; an ugly thing, said she.
But, mother, what is it like? said he.
It is like I cannot tell you what, said she. And by now it was only a little way off; and then she said: It is close.
Well, well, said Mr. Great-heart. Let those who are most afraid keep close to me.
So the fiend came on, and their escort went to meet it; but just as it reached him, it vanished from all their sight. Then they remembered what had been said some time ago: "Resist the devil, and he will flee from you."
So they went on, feeling a little refreshed. But they had not gone far before Mercy, looking behind her, saw something she thought most like a lion; and it came after them at a great padding pace, and it had a hollow roaring voice; and at every roar it gave, it made the whole Valley echo, and made their hearts ache — all except the heart of their guide.
So it came up; and Mr. Great-heart went behind and put all the Pilgrims in front of him. The lion came on fast too, and Mr. Great-heart set himself to give it battle. But when it saw that resistance was going to be made, it also drew back, and came no further.
Then they went on again, with their escort walking ahead of them, until they came to a place where a pit had been dug the whole width of the road; and before they could get ready to cross it, a great mist and darkness came down on them, so that they could not see.
Then the Pilgrims said: Oh dear — now what are we to do?
But their guide answered: Do not be afraid. Stand still, and see what end will be put to this as well.
So they waited there, because their path was blocked. And they thought too that they could hear the noise and rushing of their enemies more clearly, and that the fire and the smoke of the pit were much easier to make out.
Then Christiana said to Mercy: Now I see what my poor husband went through. I have heard a great deal about this place, but I was never here until now. Poor man — he went through here all alone in the night; he had night almost the whole way. And these fiends were busy about him too, as if they meant to tear him to pieces. Many have spoken of it, but nobody can tell what the Valley of the Shadow of Death means until they are in it themselves. "The heart knows its own bitterness, and a stranger does not share its joy." To be here is a fearful thing.
Great-heart. This is like doing business in great waters, or going down into the deep; this is like being in the heart of the sea, and going down to the roots of the mountains. Now it feels as though the earth with its bars were closed round us for ever. But let those who walk in darkness and have no light trust in the name of the Lord and lean on their God.
For my part, as I have told you already, I have often gone through this Valley, and have been far harder pressed than I am now — and yet you can see I am alive. I would not boast, because I am not my own saviour; but I trust we shall have a good deliverance. Come, let us pray for light to the one who can lighten our darkness, and who can rebuke not only these but all the Satans in hell.
So they cried out and prayed; and God sent light and deliverance, so that now there was nothing blocking their way — not even where they had just been stopped by a pit.
Still, they were not through the Valley yet; so they went on. And now there were great stinks and loathsome smells, greatly to their disgust.
Then Mercy said to Christiana: There is not such pleasant being here as at the gate, or at the Interpreter's, or at the house where we slept last night.
Oh, but, said one of the boys, it is not so bad to go through here as it would be to live here always. And for all I know, one reason we have to go this way to the house prepared for us is so that our home may be all the sweeter to us.
Well said, Samuel, said the guide — you have spoken now like a man.
Why, if ever I get out of here again, said the boy, I think I shall value light and a good road better than ever I did in all my life.
Then the guide said: We shall be out before long.
So on they went; and Joseph said: Can we not see the end of this Valley yet?
Then the guide said: Watch your feet, because you will be among the traps in a moment.
So they watched their feet and went on; but they were much troubled by the traps. Now when they had got in among them, they spotted a man thrown into the ditch on the left-hand side, with his flesh all ripped and torn.
Then the guide said: That is one Heedless, who was going this way. He has lain there a great while. There was one Take-heed with him when he was caught and killed, but he escaped their hands. You cannot imagine how many are killed hereabouts — and yet men are foolhardy enough to set out lightly on pilgrimage, and to come without a guide. Poor Christian! It was a wonder he escaped here. But he was loved by his God; and he had a good heart of his own, too, or he could never have done it.
Now they were coming towards the end of the road; and just where Christian had seen the cave when he went past, out came a giant named Maul. This Maul used to ruin young pilgrims with clever false arguments; and he called Great-heart by name and said to him: How many times have you been forbidden to do these things?
Then Mr. Great-heart said: What things?
What things! said the giant. You know what things. But I will put an end to your trade.
But tell me, said Mr. Great-heart — before we set to, let us understand what we have to fight about.
Now the women and children stood trembling, and did not know what to do.
Said the giant: You rob the country, and you rob it with the worst kind of theft.
Those are only generalities, said Mr. Great-heart. Come to particulars, man.
Then the giant said: You practise the trade of a kidnapper. You gather up women and children and carry them off into a strange country, to the weakening of my master's kingdom.
But now Great-heart replied: I am a servant of the God of heaven. My business is to persuade sinners to repent. I am commanded to do my best to turn men, women and children "from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God." And if that is really the ground of your quarrel, then let us set to as soon as you like.
Then the giant came on, and Mr. Great-heart went to meet him; and as he went he drew his sword, but the giant had a club. So without any more ado they set to; and at the first blow the giant knocked Mr. Great-heart down onto one knee. At that the women and children cried out. So Mr. Great-heart recovered himself and laid about him in a thoroughly vigorous way, and gave the giant a wound in the arm.
He fought like this for the space of an hour, at such a pitch of heat that the breath came out of the giant's nostrils the way steam comes out of a boiling cauldron.
Then they sat down to rest; but Mr. Great-heart took himself to prayer, while the women and children did nothing but sigh and cry the whole time the battle lasted.
When they had rested and got their breath back, they both set to it again; and Mr. Great-heart with a full blow brought the giant down to the ground.
No, hold on — let me get up, said the giant. So Mr. Great-heart fairly let him get to his feet.
So at it they went again, and the giant came within very little of smashing Mr. Great-heart's skull altogether with his club.
Mr. Great-heart, seeing that, ran at him in the full heat of his spirit and pierced him under the fifth rib; and with that the giant began to weaken and could hold his club up no longer. Then Mr. Great-heart followed up his blow and struck the giant's head from his shoulders.
Then the women and children rejoiced, and Mr. Great-heart praised God too for the deliverance he had worked. When this was done, they put up a pillar among them and fastened the giant's head on it, and wrote underneath in letters that passers-by could read:
He that wore this head was one who did the pilgrims misuse; he stopped their way, he spared none, but did them all abuse — until I, Great-heart, rose to be the pilgrims' guide, and stood to oppose him, who was he that was their enemy.
Now I saw that they went to the rise a little further on, which had been thrown up as a lookout for pilgrims — the place from which Christian first caught sight of his brother Faithful. So here they sat down and rested, and here too they ate and drank and made merry, because they had been delivered from such a dangerous enemy.
As they sat there eating, Christiana asked the guide whether he had taken any hurt in the battle.
Then Mr. Great-heart said: No, apart from a little on my flesh. And even that is so far from doing me any harm that it is proof at present of my love for my Master and for you, and by grace it will be a means of increasing my reward at the end.
Christiana. But were you not afraid, good sir, when you saw him come out with his club?
Great-heart. It is my duty, said he, to distrust my own ability, so that I may rely on the one who is stronger than all.
Christiana. But what did you think when he knocked you down to the ground at the first blow?
Great-heart. Why, I thought, said he, that my Master himself was served the same way — and yet it was he who conquered in the end.
Matthew. Whatever the rest of you think, I think God has been wonderfully good to us, both in bringing us out of this Valley and in delivering us out of this enemy's hands. For my part, I see no reason why we should distrust our God any more, since he has now, and in such a place as this, given us such proof of his love.
Then they got up and went on. Now a little ahead of them stood an oak tree; and under it, when they came to it, they found an old pilgrim fast asleep. They knew he was a pilgrim by his clothes, and his staff, and his belt.
So the guide, Mr. Great-heart, woke him; and the old gentleman, as he opened his eyes, cried out: What is the matter? Who are you? And what is your business here?
Great-heart. Come, man, do not be so hot. There is nobody here but friends.
Still, the old man got up and stood on his guard, and would know from them who they were. Then the guide said: My name is Great-heart. I am the guide of these Pilgrims, who are going to the Celestial Country.
Honest. Then Mr. Honest said: I beg your pardon. I was afraid you were of that company who some time ago robbed Little-faith of his money. But now that I look about me better, I can see you are honester people than that.
Great-heart. Why — what would you have done, or what could you have done, to help yourself, if we really had been of that company?
Honest. Done! Why, I would have fought as long as there was breath in me. And if I had, I am sure you could never have had the better of me; because a Christian can never be overcome unless he gives in of his own accord.
Great-heart. Well said, father Honest, said the guide. Because by this I know you are a bird of the right feather, since you have spoken the truth.
Honest. And by this I know as well that you understand what true pilgrimage is; because everybody else thinks we are the easiest of all people to overcome.
Great-heart. Well, now that we have met so happily, let me ask your name, and the name of the place you came from.
Honest. My name I cannot tell you. But I came from the town of Stupidity; it lies about four degrees beyond the City of Destruction.
Great-heart. Oh — are you from that country? I think I can half guess who you are. Your name is Old Honesty, is it not?
So the old gentleman blushed and said: Not Honesty in the abstract; Honest is my name. And I hope my nature may agree with what I am called.
Honest. But, sir, said the old gentleman, how could you guess that I was that sort of man, given that I came from such a place?
Great-heart. I had heard of you before, from my Master; because he knows everything that is done on the earth. But I have often wondered that anybody should come out of your town, because it is worse than the City of Destruction itself.
Honest. Yes — we lie further from the sun, and so we are colder and duller. But if a man were standing in a mountain of ice, still, if the Sun of Righteousness rises on him, his frozen heart will feel a thaw. And that is how it has been with me.
Great-heart. I believe it, father Honest, I believe it; because I know the thing is true.
Then the old gentleman greeted all the Pilgrims with a holy kiss of love, and asked them their names, and how they had got on since they set out on their pilgrimage.
Christiana. Then Christiana said: My name I suppose you have heard. Good Christian was my husband, and these four are his children.
But you cannot imagine how the old gentleman was struck when she told him who she was. He skipped, he smiled, he blessed them with a thousand good wishes, saying:
Honest. I have heard a great deal about your husband, and about his travels and the wars he went through in his day. Let it be said for your comfort: your husband's name rings all over these parts of the world. His faith, his courage, his endurance and his sincerity through it all have made his name famous.
Then he turned to the boys and asked them their names, which they told him. And then he said to them: Matthew, be like Matthew the tax-collector — not in his vice but in his virtue. Samuel, said he, be like Samuel the prophet, a man of faith and prayer. Joseph, said he, be like Joseph in Potiphar's house: chaste, and a man who runs from temptation. And James, be like James the Just, and like James the brother of our Lord.
Then they told him about Mercy, and how she had left her town and her family to come along with Christiana and her sons. At which the honest old man said: Mercy is your name; by mercy you shall be held up, and carried through all the difficulties that will come at you on your road, until you come to the place where you shall look the Fountain of Mercy in the face with comfort.
All this while the guide, Mr. Great-heart, was very much pleased, and smiled at his companion.
Now as they walked along together, the guide asked the old gentleman whether he had known a certain Mr. Fearing, who came on pilgrimage from his part of the country.
Honest. Yes, very well, said he. He was a man who had the root of the matter in him — but he was one of the most troublesome pilgrims I ever met with in all my days.
Great-heart. I can see you knew him, because you have given a very accurate description of him.
Honest. Knew him! I was a great companion of his. I was with him nearly all the time. When he first began to think about what was coming on us hereafter, I was with him.
Great-heart. I was his guide from my Master's house to the gates of the Celestial City.
Honest. Then you knew he was a troublesome one.
Great-heart. I did; but I could put up with it well enough, because men of my calling are often entrusted with escorting people like him.
Honest. Well then, let us hear a little about him, and how he conducted himself under your escort.
Great-heart. Why — he was always afraid he would fall short of the place he so much wanted to get to. Everything frightened him that he heard anybody mention that had the least appearance of opposition in it. I hear that he lay roaring at the Slough of Despond for about a month together; and he did not dare venture across, even though he saw several go over ahead of him, and many of them offered him a hand. But he would not go back either. He said he would die if he never reached the Celestial City — and yet he was cast down by every difficulty and tripped over every straw that anybody threw in his path.
Well, after he had lain at the Slough of Despond a great while, as I say, one sunny morning — I do not know how — he ventured it, and so got over. But once he was over he could hardly believe it. He had, I think, a Slough of Despond in his own mind, a slough he carried about with him everywhere; or he could never have been as he was.
So he came up to the gate — you know the one I mean, that stands at the head of this road — and there again he stood a good while before he would risk knocking. When the gate was opened he would draw back and give way to others, and say he was not worthy. Because for all that he had got to the gate ahead of some of them, still, a good many of them went in before him. There the poor man would stand, shaking and shrinking. I dare say it would have made anybody's heart ache to see him. And still he would not go back.
At last he took the hammer that hung by the gate in his hand and gave one or two small taps. Then One opened to him — but he shrank back as before. The one who opened stepped out after him and said: Trembling man, what do you want? At that he fell down to the ground. The one who spoke to him was astonished to see him so faint. So he said to him: Peace be to you. Get up, because I have set the door open for you. Come in, because you are blessed. With that he got up and went in trembling; and once he was in, he was ashamed to show his face.
Well, after he had been entertained there a while, as you know is the custom, he was told to go on his way, and told the road he should take. So on he came, until he came to our house. But he behaved at my Master the Interpreter's door exactly as he had done at the gate. He lay about outside in the cold a good while before he would risk calling — and yet he would not go back, and the nights were long and cold then.
Indeed, he had a note of his necessity in his coat, addressed to my Master, asking him to receive him and grant him the comfort of his house, and to allow him a strong and valiant escort as well, because he was such a chicken-hearted man himself. And even so, he was afraid to call at the door. So he lay about the place until, poor man, he was nearly starved. Yes — such was his low state that although he saw several others get in by knocking, he was still afraid to risk it.
At last, I think, I looked out of the window and noticed a man going up and down outside the door; so I went out to him and asked who he was. But, poor man, the tears stood in his eyes, so I understood what he wanted. So I went in and told them in the house, and we put the matter to our Lord. So he sent me out again to beg him to come in; but I can tell you I had hard work to manage it.
At last he came in. And I will say this for my Lord: he treated him wonderfully lovingly. There were only a few good pieces on the table, but some of them were laid on his plate. Then he presented his note, and my Lord looked at it and said his request should be granted. So when he had been there a good while, he seemed to get a little heart, and to be a little more comfortable. Because my Master, you must understand, is a man of very tender feeling, and especially towards those who are afraid; so he treated him in whatever way would most encourage him.
Well — when he had seen the things of the place and was ready to take his journey to the city, my Lord, as he had done for Christian before, gave him a bottle of cordial and some good things to eat. So we set off, and I walked ahead of him; but the man was a man of very few words. He only sighed aloud.
When we came to the place where the three fellows were hanged, he said he was afraid that would be his end too. He only seemed glad when he saw the Cross and the Tomb. There, I admit, he wanted to stay a little and look; and for a while afterwards he seemed a little cheerful.
When we came to the Hill Difficulty he made no fuss about that, and he was not much afraid of the lions either; because you have to understand that his trouble was not about that kind of thing. His fear was about whether he would be accepted at the end.
I got him into the House Beautiful, I think, before he was willing to go. And once he was in I introduced him to the young women of the place; but he was ashamed to make much of himself in company. He wanted very much to be alone — and yet he always loved good conversation, and would often get behind the screen to listen to it. He also loved seeing ancient things, and turning them over in his mind. He told me afterwards that he loved being in those two houses he had last come from — the gate, and the Interpreter's — but that he had not dared to be so bold as to ask.
And when we left the House Beautiful and he went down the hill into the Valley of Humiliation, he went down as well as ever I saw a man do in my life; because he did not care how low he was, so long as he might be happy at the end. Yes — I think there was a kind of sympathy between that valley and him, because I never saw him better in his whole pilgrimage than when he was in that valley.
Here he would lie down and hug the ground and kiss the very flowers that grew in the valley. He would be up now every morning at daybreak, walking and tracing to and fro about the place.
But when he came to the entrance of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I thought I was going to lose my man. Not because he had any inclination to go back — he always hated that — but because he was ready to die of fright. Oh, the hobgoblins will have me! The hobgoblins will have me! he cried; and I could not get him off it. He made such a noise, such an outcry here, that if they had only heard him it would have been enough to encourage them to come and fall on us.
But this I noticed particularly: that this valley was as quiet the whole time he was going through it as I have ever known it, before or since. I suppose these enemies here had a special check laid on them from our Lord, and an order not to interfere until Mr. Fearing was past.
It would take too long to tell you everything, so we will only mention a passage or two more. When he came to Vanity Fair, I thought he would have fought every man at the fair. I was afraid the two of us would be knocked on the head there, he was so hot against their follies. On the Enchanted Ground, too, he was very wide awake. But when he came to the river, where there was no bridge, then he was in a bad way again. Now, now, he said, he would be drowned for ever, and would never see with any comfort that Face he had come so many miles to look on.
And here I noticed something very remarkable: the water of that river was lower at that moment than I have ever seen it in my life. So he went over at last, hardly getting his feet wet. When he was going up to the gate, I began to take my leave of him and to wish him a good reception up there. And he said: I shall have it, I shall. Then we parted, and I never saw him again.
Honest. Then it seems he was well at last.
Great-heart. Yes, yes. I never had any doubt about him. He was a man of a choice spirit; only he was always kept very low, and that made his life so much of a burden to himself and so troublesome to others. He was, above most men, sensitive about sin. He was so afraid of doing others an injury that he would often deny himself things that were perfectly lawful, because he did not want to give offence.
Honest. But what should be the reason that such a good man should be so much in the dark all his days?
Great-heart. There are two sorts of reason for it. One is that the wise God will have it so: some must pipe and some must weep. Now Mr. Fearing was one who played the bass line. He and his fellows sound the sackbut, whose notes are more mournful than the notes of other instruments — though some say that the bass is the foundation of music. And for my part, I care nothing at all for a profession of faith that does not begin in heaviness of mind. The first string a musician usually touches is the bass, when he means to put everything in tune. God also plays this string first, when he is tuning the soul for himself. Only here was Mr. Fearing's imperfection: he could play no other music but this, until towards the very end.
I make bold to talk in this figurative way, to sharpen the wits of young readers; and because in the book of Revelation the saved are compared to a company of musicians who play on their trumpets and harps and sing their songs before the throne.
Honest. He was a very zealous man, as anyone can see from the account you have given of him. Difficulties, lions, Vanity Fair — he was not afraid of any of them. It was only sin and death and hell that were a terror to him, because he had some doubts about his own share in that celestial country.
Great-heart. You are right. Those were the things that troubled him; and they arose, as you have rightly observed, from a weakness in his mind on that particular point, not from any weakness of spirit as to the practical part of a pilgrim's life. I honestly believe that, as the proverb goes, he could have bitten a firebrand in two if it had stood in his way; but the things that weighed him down are things no man has ever yet shaken off easily.
Christiana. Then Christiana said: This account of Mr. Fearing has done me good. I thought nobody had been like me; but I can see there was some likeness between this good man and me. Only we differed in two things. His troubles were so great that they broke out; mine I kept inside. And his lay so heavy on him that they stopped him from knocking at the houses provided for pilgrims to stay in — whereas my trouble was always the sort that made me knock the louder.
Mercy. If I may speak my heart too, I have to say that something of him has been in me as well; because I have always been more afraid of the lake, and of losing my place in Paradise, than I have been of losing anything else. Oh, I thought, if only I may have the happiness of a home there — that is enough, even if I part with the whole world to win it.
Matthew. Then Matthew said: Fear was one thing that made me think I was a long way from having in me what goes along with salvation. But if it was like that with such a good man as he was, why should it not turn out well for me too?
James. No fears, no grace, said James. Although there is not always grace where there is a fear of hell, still, there is certainly no grace where there is no fear of God.
Great-heart. Well said, James; you have hit the mark. Because the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom; and certainly those who lack the beginning have neither middle nor end. But we will end our talk about Mr. Fearing here, after we have sent this farewell after him:
Well, Master Fearing, you did fear your God, and were afraid of doing anything, while here, by which you'd be betrayed. And did you fear the lake and pit? Would others did so too! Because as for those who want your wit, they their own selves undo.
Now I saw that they still went on talking; because after Mr. Great-heart had finished with Mr. Fearing, Mr. Honest began to tell them about another man, whose name was Mr. Self-will.
He claimed to be a pilgrim, said Mr. Honest, but I am convinced he never came in at the gate that stands at the head of the road.
Great-heart. Did you ever have any conversation with him about it?
Honest. Yes, more than once or twice. But he would always be like himself — self-willed. He cared nothing for people, or for argument, or for example either. Whatever his own mind prompted him to do, that he would do, and nothing could get him to do anything else.
Great-heart. Tell me — what principles did he hold? I suppose you can say.
Honest. He held that a man might follow the vices of the pilgrims as well as their virtues, and that if he did both he would certainly be saved.
Great-heart. What! If he had said it is possible for the heart to be guilty of the vices as well as to share in the virtues of pilgrims, he could not have been much blamed; because in fact we are not absolutely exempted from any vice, except on condition that we watch and struggle. But that, I gather, is not the point. If I understand you rightly, you mean that he was of the opinion that it was allowable to be like that.
Honest. Yes, yes, that is what I mean; and that is what he believed and practised.
Great-heart. But what grounds did he have for saying it?
Honest. Why, he said he had the Scripture for his warrant.
Great-heart. Please, Mr. Honest, give us a few particulars.
Honest. So I will. He said that having to do with other men's wives had been practised by David, God's beloved, and that therefore he could do it. He said that having more than one woman was a thing Solomon practised, and therefore he could do it. He said that Sarah and the godly midwives of Egypt lied, and so did Rahab who was saved, and therefore he could do it. He said the disciples went at their Master's bidding and took away the owner's donkey, and therefore he could do the same. He said that Jacob got his father's inheritance by trickery and pretence, and therefore he could do the same.
Great-heart. Utterly base! And you are sure he held this opinion?
Honest. I have heard him argue for it, bring Scripture for it, bring reasons for it, and so on.
Great-heart. An opinion that ought not to be allowed the smallest room anywhere in the world.
Honest. You must understand me correctly. He did not say that any man might do this — but that those who had the virtues of the men who did such things might do the same.
Great-heart. But what could be falser than that conclusion? Because this amounts to saying that because good men in the past have sinned out of weakness, therefore he has permission to do it deliberately. Or as though, because a child was blown over by a gust of wind, or stumbled on a stone and fell and dirtied itself in the mud, therefore he might deliberately lie down and wallow in it like a pig. Who could have thought anybody could be so far blinded by the power of his appetites? But what is written must be true: they "stumble at the Word, being disobedient — to which also they were appointed."
His supposition that people who give themselves up to godly men's vices may have those men's virtues is a delusion just as strong as the other. It is exactly as if a dog were to say, I have, or may have, the qualities of the child, because I lick up its filth. Eating up the sins of God's people is no sign of a man possessed of their virtues. Nor can I believe that anybody holding this opinion has, at that moment, either faith or love in him. But I know you have made strong objections to him. Tell me — what can he say for himself?
Honest. Why, he says that to do this as a matter of stated opinion seems a great deal more honest than to do it while holding the opposite opinion.
Great-heart. A very wicked answer. Because although letting the reins loose on our appetites while our opinions are against such things is bad, still, to sin and then argue for permission to do it is worse. The first trips up onlookers by accident; the second argues them into the trap.
Honest. There are many of this man's mind who have not got this man's mouth; and that is what makes going on pilgrimage as little regarded as it is.
Great-heart. You have spoken the truth, and it is to be lamented. But the man who fears the King of Paradise will come out of it all.
Christiana. There are strange opinions in the world. I knew one man who said it was time enough to repent when they came to die.
Great-heart. Such people are not very wise. That man would have been very unwilling, if he had been given a week to run twenty miles in for his life, to put that journey off to the last hour of the week.
Honest. You are right. And yet most of those who count themselves pilgrims really do just that. I am, as you see, an old man, and I have been a traveller on this road many a day, and I have taken notice of a great many things.
I have seen some who set out as though they would drive the whole world in front of them, and who yet within a few days died as those people died in the wilderness, and so never got a sight of the promised land.
I have seen some who promised nothing at all when they first set out to be pilgrims — men you would have thought could not last a day — who have yet turned out very good pilgrims.
I have seen some who ran hurrying forward and who then, after a little while, ran just as fast back again.
I have seen some who spoke very well of a pilgrim's life at first, and who after a while spoke just as much against it. I have heard some, when they first set out for Paradise, say positively that there is such a place — who, when they had almost got there, came back again and said there is none.
I have heard some boast about what they would do in case they were opposed, who at a mere false alarm have run for it, abandoning faith, the pilgrim's road and everything else.
Now, as they were going along like this, somebody came running to meet them and said: Gentlemen — and you of the weaker sort — if you value your lives, look out for yourselves, because the robbers are up ahead of you.
Great-heart. Then Mr. Great-heart said: They are the three who attacked Little-faith before now. Well, said he, we are ready for them.
So they went on their way. And they looked at every turn to see whether they would meet the villains; but whether they had heard about Mr. Great-heart, or whether they had other game in view, they never came up to the Pilgrims.
Christiana then said she wished there were an inn for herself and her children, because they were tired. So Mr. Honest said: There is one a little way ahead of us, where a very honourable disciple lives, one Gaius.
So they all agreed to turn in there, and all the more readily because the old gentleman gave him such a good report. So when they came to the door they went in without knocking, because people do not usually knock at the door of an inn. Then they called for the master of the house, and he came to them. So they asked whether they might sleep there that night.
Gaius. Yes, gentlemen, if you are honest men — because my house is for nobody but pilgrims.
Then Christiana and Mercy and the boys were all the more pleased, because the innkeeper was a lover of pilgrims. So they asked for rooms, and he showed them one for Christiana and her children and Mercy, and another for Mr. Great-heart and the old gentleman.
Great-heart. Then Mr. Great-heart said: Good Gaius, what have you got for supper? Because these pilgrims have come a long way today and are tired.
Gaius. It is late, said Gaius, so we cannot conveniently go out for food. But you shall be welcome to whatever we have, if that will content you.
Great-heart. We shall be content with whatever you have in the house; because I have tested you before, and you are never without what is needed.
Then he went down and spoke to the cook, whose name was Taste-that-which-is-good, to get supper ready for so many pilgrims. When this was done he came up again, saying: Come, my good friends, you are welcome to me, and I am glad I have a house to entertain you in. And while supper is getting ready, if you like, let us entertain one another with some good conversation.
So they all said: Agreed.
Gaius. Then Gaius said: Whose wife is this older woman? And whose daughter is this young one?
Great-heart. The woman is the wife of one Christian, a Pilgrim of former days, and these are his four children. The young woman is an acquaintance of hers, whom she has persuaded to come with her on pilgrimage. The boys all take after their father and are eager to walk in his footsteps. In fact, if they only see a place where the old Pilgrim lay down, or the print of his foot, it gives their hearts joy, and they want to lie or tread in the same spot.
Gaius. Then Gaius said: Is this Christian's wife? And are these Christian's children? I knew your husband's father, yes, and his father's father as well. There have been a great many good men of this stock; their ancestors first lived at Antioch. Christian's forebears — I suppose you have heard your husband speak of them — were very worthy men. Beyond anybody I know, they showed themselves men of great virtue and courage for the Lord of the Pilgrims, for his ways, and for those who loved him.
I have heard of many of your husband's relations who stood up under every trial for the sake of the truth. Stephen, who was one of the first of the family your husband sprang from, was knocked on the head with stones. James, another of that line, was killed with the edge of the sword. To say nothing of Paul and Peter, men of the old family your husband came from, there was Ignatius, who was thrown to the lions; Romanus, whose flesh was cut piece by piece off his bones; and Polycarp, who played the man in the fire. There was the one who was hung up in a basket in the sun for the wasps to eat, and the one they put into a sack and threw into the sea to drown. It would be completely impossible to count up all of that family who have suffered injury and death for the love of a pilgrim's life.
And I cannot help being glad to see that your husband has left four such boys behind him. I hope they will keep up their father's name and walk in their father's footsteps and come to their father's end.
Great-heart. Indeed, sir, they are promising lads. They seem to choose their father's ways with all their hearts.
Gaius. That is exactly what I said. So Christian's family is likely to spread out over the face of the earth still, and to be numerous on it. So let Christiana look out some young women for her sons to be betrothed to, so that their father's name and the house of his forebears may never be forgotten in the world.
Honest. It would be a pity if this family were to die out and be extinct.
Gaius. Fall it cannot; but be diminished it may. Let Christiana take my advice, though, and that is the way to keep it up.
And, Christiana, said the innkeeper, I am glad to see you and your friend Mercy here together — a lovely pair. And if I may advise you, take Mercy into a nearer relationship with you. If she is willing, let her be given to Matthew, your eldest son. That is the way to keep you a posterity on the earth.
So this match was agreed on, and in due course they were married; but more of that later.
Gaius went on, and said: I will now speak on behalf of women, to take away their reproach. Because just as death and the curse came into the world by a woman, so did life and health: "God sent forth his Son, made of a woman." Yes, and to show how much those who came after detested the mother's act, the women of the Old Testament longed for children, in the hope that this or that woman might turn out to be the mother of the Saviour of the world.
I will say again that when the Saviour had come, women rejoiced in him before either man or angel did. I do not read that any man ever gave Christ so much as a coin; but the women followed him and supported him out of what they had. It was a woman who washed his feet with her tears, and a woman who anointed his body for burial. It was women who wept when he was going to the Cross, and women who followed him from the Cross, and who sat by his tomb when he was buried. It was women who were first with him on the morning of his resurrection, and women who first brought his disciples the news that he was risen from the dead. Women, then, are highly favoured, and show by all this that they share with us in the grace of life.
Now the cook sent up to say that supper was nearly ready, and sent somebody to lay the cloth and the plates, and to set the salt and the bread in order.
Then Matthew said: The sight of this cloth, and of this forerunner of the supper, gives me a keener appetite for my food than I had before.
Gaius. Then let everything in this life that ministers teaching to you give you a keener desire to sit at the supper of the great King in his kingdom. Because all the preaching and the books and the services here are only the laying of the plates and the setting of the salt on the table, compared with the feast our Lord will make for us when we come to his house.
So supper came up. And first a shoulder and a breast of meat were set on the table in front of them, to show that they must begin their meal with prayer and praise to God: the shoulder that David lifted his heart up to God with, and the breast where his heart lay, which he used to lean against his harp with when he played. These two dishes were very fresh and good, and they all ate heartily of them.
The next thing they brought up was a bottle of wine, red as blood. So Gaius said to them: Drink freely — this is the juice of the true vine, that gladdens the heart of God and of man. So they drank and were merry.
The next was a dish of milk with bread crumbled into it; but Gaius said: Let the boys have that, so that they may grow by it.
Then in due course they brought up a dish of butter and honey. Then Gaius said: Eat freely of this; because this is good for cheering up and strengthening your judgment and your understanding. This was our Lord's dish when he was a child: "Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil and choose the good."
Then they brought up a dish of apples, and they were very good-tasting fruit. Then Matthew said: May we eat apples, since apples were what the serpent tricked our first mother with?
Then Gaius said:
Apples they were, with which we were beguiled; yet sin, not apples, has our souls defiled. Apples forbidden, eaten, taint the blood; to eat them when commanded does us good. Drink of his flagons then, you church, his dove, and eat his apples, you who are sick of love.
Then Matthew said: I raised the objection because a while ago I was made ill by eating fruit.
Gaius. Forbidden fruit will make you ill; but not what our Lord has allowed.
While they were talking like this, another dish was set in front of them, and it was a dish of nuts. Then some at the table said: Nuts spoil tender teeth, and especially children's teeth. Which when Gaius heard, he said:
Hard texts are nuts — I will not call them cheats — whose shells keep back their kernels from the eaters. Open the shells, then, and you'll have the meat; they're brought here for you to crack and eat.
Then they were very merry, and sat at the table a long time talking about many things. Then the old gentleman said: My good landlord, while we are cracking your nuts, will you please open this riddle for us?
There was a man, though some men called him mad: the more he threw away, the more he had.
Then they all listened carefully, wondering what good Gaius would say. So he sat still for a while, and then answered:
The man who gives his goods away to the poor shall have as much again, and ten times more.
Then Joseph said: I must say, sir, I did not think you would find it out.
Oh, said Gaius, I have been trained up in this way a long while. Nothing teaches like experience. I have learned from my Lord to be kind, and I have found by experience that I have gained by it. "There is a man who scatters, and yet increases; and there is a man who withholds more than he ought, and it leads him to poverty." "There is a man who makes himself rich and yet has nothing; and there is a man who makes himself poor and yet has great riches."
Then Samuel whispered to Christiana his mother, and said: Mother, this is a very good man's house. Let us stay here a good while, and let my brother Matthew be married to Mercy here before we go any further.
Which Gaius the host overheard, and said: With a very good will, my child.
So they stayed there more than a month, and Mercy was given to Matthew as his wife.
While they stayed here, Mercy, as her custom was, would be making coats and clothes to give away to the poor, by which she brought a very good name on the Pilgrims.
But to come back to our story. After supper the lads asked for a bed, because they were worn out with travelling. So Gaius called for somebody to show them their room; but Mercy said: I will put them to bed. So she took them up to bed, and they slept well.
But the rest sat up all night, because Gaius and they were such congenial company that they could not tell how to part. Then after a great deal of talk about their Lord, and themselves, and their journey, old Mr. Honest — the one who had put the riddle to Gaius — began to nod off.
Then Great-heart said: What, sir, are you getting drowsy? Come, wake yourself up; here is a riddle for you.
Then Mr. Honest said: Let us hear it.
Then Mr. Great-heart said:
He that will kill must first be overcome; who would live abroad must first die at home.
Ha, said Mr. Honest, that is a hard one — hard to explain and harder to practise. But come, landlord, said he, I will leave my part to you, if you like. You explain it, and I will hear what you say.
No, said Gaius; it was put to you, and you are expected to answer it.
Then the old gentleman said:
He first by grace must conquered be who would his sin put by; and whoever lives and would convince me must to himself first die.
That is right, said Gaius. Good doctrine and experience both teach this. Because, first, until grace shows itself and overcomes the soul with its glory, the soul has no heart at all to oppose sin. Besides — if sin is Satan's rope, by which the soul lies tied up, how could it put up any resistance before it is loosed from that weakness?
Second, nobody who knows anything of either reason or grace will believe that a man can be a living monument of grace while he is a slave to his own corruptions.
And now that it comes into my mind, I will tell you a story worth hearing. There were two men who went on pilgrimage: the one began when he was young, the other when he was old. The young man had strong corruptions to grapple with; the old man's had decayed along with the decay of his nature. The young man walked his road as steadily as the old one did, and was every bit as bright as he was. Now which of the two had his graces shining clearest, given that both seemed alike?
Honest. The young man's, without a doubt. Because whatever holds out against the greatest opposition gives the best proof that it is the strongest — especially when it also keeps pace with something that meets nothing like half as much opposition, as old age certainly does not.
Besides, I have noticed that old men have congratulated themselves on this mistake: taking the decay of their nature for a gracious victory over their corruptions, and so being apt to fool themselves. Old men who have grace really are best able to give advice to the young, because they have seen most of the emptiness of things. But even so, when an old man and a young one set out together, the young one has the advantage in showing the clearest evidence of a work of grace in him — even though the old man's corruptions are naturally the weaker.
So they sat talking until daybreak. Now when the household was up, Christiana asked her son James to read a chapter; so he read the fifty-third of Isaiah. When he had finished, Mr. Honest asked why the Saviour is said to come "out of a dry ground," and also that "he had no form or comeliness in him."
Great-heart. Then Mr. Great-heart said: To the first I answer that it is because the church of the Jews, which Christ came from, had by then lost nearly all the sap and spirit of religion. To the second I say that the words are spoken in the character of unbelievers — who, because they lack the eye that can see into our Prince's heart, therefore judge him by the plainness of his outside. Just like people who do not know that precious stones are covered over with a rough crust, and who, when they have found one, throw it away again because they have no idea what they have found, as men throw away a common stone.
Well, said Gaius, now that you are here, and since I know Mr. Great-heart is good with his weapons, if you like we will walk out into the fields when we have refreshed ourselves, and see whether we can do any good. About a mile from here there is one Slay-good, a giant who does a great deal of harm on the King's highway in these parts; and I know roughly where his haunt is. He is master of a number of thieves. It would be a good thing if we could clear these parts of him.
So they agreed and went — Mr. Great-heart with his sword and helmet and shield, and the rest with spears and staffs. When they came to the place where he was, they found him with one Feeble-mind in his hands, whom his servants had brought to him, having caught him on the road. Now the giant was going through his pockets, meaning after that to pick his bones, because he was of the flesh-eating kind.
Well, as soon as he saw Mr. Great-heart and his friends at the mouth of his cave with their weapons, he demanded to know what they wanted.
Great-heart. We want you. Because we have come to avenge the quarrel of the many pilgrims you have killed after dragging them off the King's highway. So come out of your cave.
So he armed himself and came out; and to battle they went, and fought for more than an hour, and then stood still to get their breath.
Slay-good. Then the giant said: Why are you here on my ground?
Great-heart. To avenge the blood of pilgrims, as I told you before.
So they set to it again, and the giant made Mr. Great-heart give ground; but he came up again, and with a great heart he let fly so stoutly at the giant's head and sides that he made him drop his weapon out of his hand. So he struck him and killed him, and cut off his head and brought it away to the inn. He also took Feeble-mind the pilgrim and brought him back with him to his lodgings.
When they had got home, they showed the head to the household, and then set it up, as they had done with others before, as a warning to anybody who might try to do the same afterwards.
Then they asked Mr. Feeble-mind how he had fallen into his hands.
Feeble-mind. Then the poor man said: I am a sickly man, as you see. And because death used to knock at my door about once a day, I thought I should never be well at home; so I took up a pilgrim's life, and have travelled here from the town of Uncertain, where I and my father were born.
I am a man with no strength at all, either of body or of mind. But I would, if I could, spend my life on the pilgrim's road, even though I can only crawl along it. When I came to the gate at the head of the road, the Lord of that place received me freely. He raised no objection to my sickly looks or to my feeble mind, but gave me the things that were necessary for my journey and told me to hope to the end.
When I came to the house of the Interpreter I met with a great deal of kindness there; and because the Hill Difficulty was judged too hard for me, I was carried up it by one of his servants. Indeed, I have found a great deal of relief from pilgrims — though none of them were willing to go as slowly as I am forced to go. Still, as they came on, they told me to take heart, and said that it was their Lord's will that comfort should be given to the feeble-minded; and then they went on at their own pace.
When I had come up to Assault Lane, this giant met me and told me to prepare for a fight. But alas — feeble creature that I am, I had more need of a cordial. So he came up and took me.
I fancied he would not kill me. And when he had got me into his den, since I had not gone with him willingly, I believed I should come out alive again; because I have heard that no pilgrim who is taken captive by violent hands is, by the laws of Providence, to die at the enemy's hand, so long as he keeps his heart whole towards his Master. Robbed I expected to be, and robbed I certainly have been; but I have escaped with my life, as you see. And for that I thank my King as the author of it, and you as the means.
I expect other hard knocks as well. But this I have settled on: to run when I can, to walk when I cannot run, and to crawl when I cannot walk. As for the main point, I thank the one who loves me, I am fixed. My road is in front of me; my mind is beyond the river that has no bridge — even though I am, as you see, only of a feeble mind.
Honest. Then old Mr. Honest said: Were you not once acquainted with a certain Mr. Fearing, a pilgrim?
Feeble-mind. Acquainted with him! Yes. He came from the town of Stupidity, which lies four degrees to the north of the City of Destruction, and as far from where I was born. And yet we knew each other well — because in fact he was my uncle, my father's brother. He and I have been much of the same temper. He was a little shorter than I am, but we were much of the same complexion.
Honest. I can see you knew him; and I am inclined to believe you were related, too, because you have his pale look, a cast of the eye like his, and your way of speaking is much the same.
Feeble-mind. Most people who have known us both have said so. And besides, whatever I have read in him I have mostly found in myself too.
Gaius. Come, sir, said good Gaius, take heart. You are welcome to me and to my house; call freely for whatever you have a mind to, and whatever you want my servants to do for you they will do gladly.
Then Mr. Feeble-mind said: This is unexpected kindness — like the sun shining out of a very dark cloud. Did Giant Slay-good intend me this favour when he stopped me and decided to let me go no further? Did he intend that after he had gone through my pockets I should go to Gaius, my host? And yet that is how it has turned out.
Now just as Mr. Feeble-mind and Gaius were talking like this, somebody came running and called at the door, and told them that about a mile and a half off, one Mr. Not-right, a pilgrim, had been struck dead on the spot by a thunderbolt.
Feeble-mind. Oh dear, said Mr. Feeble-mind — is he killed? He caught up with me a few days before I got as far as here, and wanted to be my companion. He was with me too when Slay-good the giant took me; but he was quick on his feet and got away. And it seems he escaped in order to die, and I was taken in order to live.
What seems to seek to kill a man outright often delivers from the saddest plight. That very providence whose face is death often to the lowly bequeaths life. I was taken, he escaped and fled; crossed hands give death to him and life to me.
Now about this time Matthew and Mercy were married. Gaius also gave his daughter Phoebe to James, Matthew's brother, as his wife. After which they still stayed more than ten days at Gaius's house, spending their time and the seasons as pilgrims usually do.
When they were to leave, Gaius made them a feast, and they ate and drank and were merry. Now the hour came when they had to go; so Mr. Great-heart called for the bill. But Gaius told him that at his house it was not the custom for pilgrims to pay for their entertainment. He kept them by the year, but looked for his payment from the good Samaritan, who had promised him that on his return he would faithfully repay him whatever expense he had been put to on their account.
Then Mr. Great-heart said to him:
Great-heart. "Beloved, you do faithfully whatever you do for the brothers and for strangers, who have borne witness to your love before the church; and if you go on to help them forward on their journey in a godly way, you will do well."
Then Gaius took his leave of them all, and of his children, and particularly of Mr. Feeble-mind. He also gave him something to drink on the road.
Now Mr. Feeble-mind, as they were going out of the door, looked as though he meant to hang back. Which when Mr. Great-heart noticed, he said: Come, Mr. Feeble-mind, please come along with us. I will be your escort, and you shall fare as the rest do.
Feeble-mind. Alas — I want a companion who suits me. You are all strong and hearty, but I, as you see, am weak. So I would rather come along behind, in case, on account of my many weaknesses, I should be a burden both to myself and to you.
I am, as I said, a man of a weak and feeble mind, and I shall be offended and weakened by things that others can take in their stride. I shall not like any laughing; I shall not like any bright clothes; I shall not like any pointless questions. In fact I am such a weak man that I shall be offended by things other people are perfectly free to do. I do not yet know the whole truth; I am a very ignorant Christian man. Sometimes, if I hear other people rejoicing in the Lord, it troubles me, because I cannot do the same. It is with me as it is with a weak man among the strong, or a sick man among the healthy, or a lamp that is despised — "he that is ready to slip with his feet is like a lamp despised in the thoughts of the man who is at ease." So I do not know what to do.
Great-heart. But, brother, said Mr. Great-heart, I have a commission to "comfort the feeble-minded" and to "support the weak." You must certainly come along with us. We will wait for you; we will lend you our help; we will deny ourselves some things, both in opinion and in practice, for your sake; we will not get into doubtful arguments in front of you; we will be made all things to you, rather than have you left behind.
Now all this while they were standing at Gaius's door. And as they were in the middle of this conversation, Mr. Ready-to-halt came past with his crutches in his hand — and he was going on pilgrimage too.
Feeble-mind. Then Mr. Feeble-mind said to him: Man, how did you come here? I was just complaining that I had no companion to suit me — and you are exactly what I wished for. Welcome, welcome, good Mr. Ready-to-halt. I hope you and I may be some help to each other.
Ready-to-halt. I shall be glad of your company, said the other; and good Mr. Feeble-mind, rather than we should part, now that we have met so happily, I will lend you one of my crutches.
Feeble-mind. No, said he — and though I thank you for your good will, I am not inclined to limp before I am lame. All the same, I think that when the occasion arises it might help me against a dog.
Ready-to-halt. If either I or my crutches can do you any service, we are both at your command, good Mr. Feeble-mind.
So they went on: Mr. Great-heart and Mr. Honest in front, Christiana and her children next, and Mr. Feeble-mind and Mr. Ready-to-halt bringing up the rear with his crutches.
Then Mr. Honest said:
Honest. Please, sir, now that we are on the road, tell us some profitable things about people who have gone on pilgrimage before us.
Great-heart. Gladly. I suppose you have heard how Christian in the old days met Apollyon in the Valley of Humiliation, and also what hard work he had getting through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And I think you cannot but have heard how Faithful was put to it by Madam Wanton, and by Adam the First, and by one Discontent, and by Shame — four as deceitful villains as a man can meet with on the road.
Honest. Yes, I have heard all this. But indeed, good Faithful was hardest pressed by Shame; he was a tireless one.
Great-heart. Yes — because, as the Pilgrim rightly said, of all men he had the wrong name.
Honest. But tell me, sir — where was it that Christian and Faithful met Talkative? He was another remarkable one.
Great-heart. He was a confident fool; and yet a great many follow his ways.
Honest. He came near to taking Faithful in.
Great-heart. Yes; but Christian quickly put him in the way of finding him out.
So they went on until they came to the place where Evangelist met Christian and Faithful and prophesied to them about what would happen to them at Vanity Fair.
Great-heart. Then their guide said: It was about here that Christian and Faithful met Evangelist, who prophesied to them what troubles they would meet at Vanity Fair.
Honest. Did they? I dare say that was a hard chapter he read them then.
Great-heart. It was. But he gave them encouragement along with it. But why do we talk of them? They were a pair of lion-like men; they had set their faces like flint. Do you not remember how undaunted they were when they stood in front of the judge?
Honest. Well, Faithful suffered bravely.
Great-heart. So he did — and brave things came of it, because Hopeful and some others, as the story tells us, were converted by his death.
Honest. Well, but do go on; you are well acquainted with these things.
Great-heart. Of everything Christian met with after he had passed through Vanity Fair, one By-ends was the greatest rogue.
Honest. By-ends! Who was he?
Great-heart. A thoroughgoing rogue — an outright hypocrite. A man who would be religious whichever way the world went, but so cunning that he made sure he would neither lose nor suffer by it. He had his own brand of religion for every fresh occasion, and his wife was as good at it as he was. He would turn and change from one opinion to another — yes, and argue for doing it, too. But so far as I could learn, he came to a bad end with his by-ends; nor did I ever hear that any of his children were thought anything of by anybody who truly feared God.
Now by this time they had come within sight of the town of Vanity, where Vanity Fair is held. So when they saw they were so close to the town, they discussed with one another how they should get through it; and some said one thing and some another. At last Mr. Great-heart said: I have, as you know, often escorted pilgrims through this town. Now I am acquainted with one Mr. Mnason, a Cypriot by nation, an old disciple, at whose house we may lodge. If you think it a good idea, said he, we will turn in there.
Agreed, said old Honest. Agreed, said Christiana. Agreed, said Mr. Feeble-mind. And so they all said.
Now you must understand it was evening by the time they got to the edge of the town. But Mr. Great-heart knew the way to the old man's house. So they came there, and he called at the door; and the old man inside knew his voice the moment he heard it. So he opened up, and they all came in.
Then Mnason their host said: How far have you come today?
So they said: From the house of our friend Gaius.
I promise you, said he, you have come a good stretch. You may well be tired. Sit down.
So they sat down.
Great-heart. Then their guide said: Come, what cheer, gentlemen? I dare say you are welcome to my friend.
Mnason. I do bid you welcome, said Mr. Mnason. And whatever you need, only say so, and we will do what we can to get it for you.
Honest. Our great need a while ago was shelter and good company; and now I hope we have both.
Mnason. As for shelter, you can see what it is. As for good company, that will show itself in the testing.
Great-heart. Well, said Mr. Great-heart, will you take the Pilgrims up to their rooms?
Mnason. I will, said Mr. Mnason.
So he took them to their various places, and also showed them a very fine dining room where they could sit and eat supper together until it was time to go to bed.
Now when they were settled in their places, and had cheered up a little after their journey, Mr. Honest asked his landlord whether there were any good people in the town.
Mnason. We have a few — and indeed they are only a few, compared with the others.
Honest. But how are we to see some of them? Because the sight of good men, to people who are going on pilgrimage, is like the appearing of the moon and the stars to men sailing at sea.
Then Mr. Mnason stamped his foot, and his daughter Grace came up. So he said to her: Grace, go and tell my friends Mr. Contrite, Mr. Holy-man, Mr. Love-saint, Mr. Dare-not-lie and Mr. Penitent that I have a friend or two at my house who would like to see them this evening.
So Grace went to call them, and they came; and after greetings had been made, they sat down together at the table.
Then Mr. Mnason their landlord said: Neighbours, I have, as you see, a company of strangers come to my house. They are Pilgrims; they have come from far away, and they are going to Mount Zion. But who, said he, do you think this is? — pointing with his finger at Christiana. This is Christiana, the wife of Christian, that famous Pilgrim who, along with his brother Faithful, was so shamefully treated in our town.
At that they stood amazed, saying: We little thought we should see Christiana, when Grace came to call us. So this is a very comforting surprise.
Then they asked after her well-being, and whether these young men were her husband's sons. And when she had told them they were, they said: May the King whom you love and serve make you like your father, and bring you where he is, in peace.
Honest. Then Mr. Honest, when they were all sitting down, asked Mr. Contrite and the rest what state their town was in at present.
Contrite. You may be sure we are in a rush at fair time. It is hard to keep our hearts and spirits in any good order when we are in such a cluttered state. A man who lives in a place like this, and has to deal with the people we deal with, needs a reminder to warn him to take care every moment of the day.
Honest. But how are your neighbours as regards leaving people in peace?
Contrite. They are a great deal more moderate now than they used to be. You know how Christian and Faithful were treated in our town. But lately, I say, they have been far more moderate. I think the blood of Faithful lies heavy on them to this day; because since they burned him, they have been ashamed to burn anybody else. In those days we were afraid to walk in the streets, but now we can show our heads. Then the name of a believer was hateful; now, especially in some parts of our town — because you know our town is a large one — religion is counted respectable.
Then Mr. Contrite said to them: Tell us, how does it go with you on your pilgrimage? How is the country disposed towards you?
Honest. It happens to us as it happens to travellers: sometimes our road is clean, sometimes foul; sometimes uphill, sometimes down. We are seldom sure of anything. The wind is not always at our backs, nor is everybody we meet on the road a friend. We have met with some notable knocks already, and what still lies ahead we do not know. But for the most part we find it true, what has been said from of old: that a good man must expect trouble.
Contrite. You speak of knocks. What knocks have you met with?
Honest. Ask Mr. Great-heart, our guide; he can give the best account of that.
Great-heart. We have been set upon three or four times already. First, Christiana and her children were set upon by two ruffians, who they were afraid would take their lives. We have been set upon by Giant Bloody-man, Giant Maul and Giant Slay-good — though in fact with the last we did the setting-upon rather than he.
And this is how it happened. After we had been some time at the house of "Gaius, my host, and host of the whole church," we had a mind one day to take our weapons with us and go and see whether we could light on any of the enemies of pilgrims; because we had heard there was a notable one thereabouts. Now Gaius knew his haunt better than I did, because he lived nearby. So we looked and looked, until at last we made out the mouth of his cave. Then we were glad, and plucked up our spirits.
So we came up to his den; and when we got there, he had dragged this poor man, Mr. Feeble-mind, into his net by main force, and was about to make an end of him. But when he saw us — supposing, as we thought, that he had another catch — he left the poor man in his hole and came out. So we fell to it hard, and he laid about him vigorously; but in the end he was brought down to the ground, and his head cut off and set up by the roadside, as a warning to any who should practise such wickedness afterwards. And that I am telling you the truth, here is the man himself to confirm it, who was like a lamb taken out of the lion's mouth.
Feeble-mind. Then Mr. Feeble-mind said: I found this true, both to my cost and to my comfort. To my cost, when he was threatening to pick my bones every moment; and to my comfort, when I saw Mr. Great-heart and his friends coming up so close with their weapons to rescue me.
Holy-man. Then Mr. Holy-man said: There are two things that people who go on pilgrimage need to have: courage, and an unstained life. If they have no courage, they can never hold on their way; and if their lives are loose, they will make the very name of a Pilgrim stink.
Love-saint. Then Mr. Love-saint said: I hope this warning is not needed among you. But truly, there are many on the road who show themselves strangers to pilgrimage, rather than strangers and pilgrims on the earth.
Dare-not-lie. Then Mr. Dare-not-lie said: It is true. They have neither the pilgrim's need nor the pilgrim's courage. They do not walk straight, but all crooked; one shoe turns inward and the other outward, and their stockings hang out behind; a rag here and a tear there, to the discredit of their Lord.
Penitent. These things, said Mr. Penitent, are what they ought to be troubled about. Nor are the pilgrims likely to have the favour they want put on them and on their pilgrimage until the road is cleared of such spots and blemishes.
So they sat talking and passing the time until supper was set on the table; and they went to it and refreshed their weary bodies, and then went to bed.
Now they stayed at this fair a great while, at the house of this Mr. Mnason; who in due course gave his daughter Grace to Samuel, Christiana's son, as his wife, and his daughter Martha to Joseph.
The time they stayed here was, as I say, a long one, because things were not now as they had been in former days. So the Pilgrims got to know many of the good people of the town, and did them whatever service they could. Mercy, as her custom was, worked hard for the poor; so their bellies and their backs blessed her, and she was an ornament there to what she professed. And to say the truth for Grace and Phoebe and Martha, they were all of a very good nature and did a great deal of good where they were. They were all of them very fruitful too; so that Christian's name, as was said before, was likely to live on in the world.
While they were staying here, a monster came out of the woods and killed a great many of the people of the town. It would carry away their children too, and teach them to suckle its cubs. Now no man in the town dared so much as face this monster; they all fled when they heard the noise of it coming.
The monster was like no beast on earth. Its body was like a dragon's, and it had seven heads and ten horns. It made great havoc among the children, and yet it was governed by a woman. This monster set out terms to men; and those men who loved their lives more than their souls accepted those terms. So they came under it.
Now this Mr. Great-heart, together with those who had come to visit the pilgrims at Mr. Mnason's house, entered into an agreement to go and engage this beast, in the hope that they might deliver the people of this town out of the paws and mouth of such a devouring serpent.
So Mr. Great-heart, Mr. Contrite, Mr. Holy-man, Mr. Dare-not-lie and Mr. Penitent went out with their weapons to meet it. Now the monster at first was very rampant, and looked on these enemies with great contempt; but they belaboured it so, being sturdy men at arms, that they made it retreat; and so they came home again to Mr. Mnason's house.
The monster, you must understand, had its own particular seasons for coming out and making its attempts on the children of the townspeople. And these valiant men watched for it in those seasons and kept up a constant assault on it, so much so that in time it became not only wounded but lame; and it has not made the havoc among the townsmen's children that it used to. And some genuinely believe that this beast will die of its wounds.
So this made Mr. Great-heart and his companions famous in this town, so that many of the people who lacked any real discernment nevertheless had a reverent regard and respect for them. And it was on this account that these pilgrims came to no great harm here. It is true there were some of the baser sort who could see no further than a mole and understand no more than an animal; these had no reverence for these men, and took no notice of their courage or their exploits.
Well — the time came when the Pilgrims had to go on their way; so they got ready for their journey. They sent for their friends; they talked with them; they set aside some time to commit each other to their Prince's protection. There were others too who brought them such things as they had that were suitable for the weak and for the strong, for the women and for the men, and so loaded them up with what was needed.
Then they set off on their road; and their friends going with them as far as was convenient, they committed each other again to their King's protection, and parted.
So those who were of the Pilgrims' company went on, with Mr. Great-heart walking ahead of them. Now the women and children being weak, they were forced to go at whatever pace they could bear; and by this means Mr. Ready-to-halt and Mr. Feeble-mind had more company in their own condition.
When they had left the townspeople, and their friends had said goodbye, they soon came to the place where Faithful was put to death. So there they stopped, and thanked the one who had enabled him to bear his cross so well — and all the more because they now found they had a benefit from such a manly suffering as his was.
So after this they went on a good way further, talking about Christian and Faithful, and about how Hopeful joined himself to Christian after Faithful was dead.
Now they had come up to the Hill Lucre, where the silver mine was that took Demas off his pilgrimage, and into which, as some think, By-ends fell and perished; so they thought about that. But when they came to the old monument standing opposite the Hill Lucre — the pillar of salt that stands within sight of Sodom and its stinking lake — they wondered, as Christian had before them, that men of such knowledge and ripeness of wit as those men were should be so blinded as to turn aside here. Only they considered again that human nature is not much affected by the harm others have come to — especially if the thing they are looking at has some power of attraction over a foolish eye.
Now I saw that they went on until they came to the river that lies on this side of the Delectable Mountains — the river where the fine trees grow on both banks, and whose leaves, if taken inwardly, are good against overeating; where the meadows are green all the year round, and where they could lie down safely.
Along this riverside, in the meadow, there were shelters and folds for sheep, and a house built for the feeding and bringing up of those lambs, the babies of the women who go on pilgrimage. And there was one here who was entrusted with them: one who could feel compassion, and who could gather these lambs in his arm and carry them in his bosom, and who could gently lead those who were with young.
Now to this man's care Christiana urged her four daughters to commit their little ones, so that beside these waters they might be housed and sheltered and helped and fed, and so that none of them should be missing in time to come. If any of them stray or get lost, this man will bring them back again. He will also bind up whatever was broken, and will strengthen those who are sick. Here they will never lack food and drink and clothing; here they will be kept safe from thieves and robbers — because this man will die before a single one of those committed to his care shall be lost.
Besides which, they will certainly have good upbringing and correction here, and will be taught to walk in the right paths; and that, as you know, is a favour of no small value. And here too, as you see, are lovely waters, pleasant meadows, delicate flowers, and a variety of trees bearing wholesome fruit — not fruit like the kind Matthew ate, that hung over the wall out of Beelzebub's garden, but fruit that produces health where there is none, and keeps it up and increases it where there is.
So they were content to commit their little ones to him. And another thing that encouraged them to do it was that all of this was to be at the King's expense, so that it was like a hospital for young children and orphans.
Now they went on; and when they had come to By-path Meadow, to the stile Christian climbed over with his companion Hopeful when they were caught by Giant Despair and put into Doubting Castle, they sat down and discussed what would be best to do. That is: now that they were so strong, and had a man like Mr. Great-heart for their escort, whether they had not better make an attempt on the Giant, demolish his castle, and set free any pilgrims who might be in it, before they went any further.
So one said one thing and another said the opposite. One questioned whether it was lawful to go onto unconsecrated ground; another said they might, provided their purpose was good. But Mr. Great-heart said: Although that last assertion cannot be universally true, still, I have a command to resist sin, to overcome evil, and to fight the good fight of faith. And tell me — who should I fight that good fight with, if not with Giant Despair? So I mean to attempt the taking of his life and the demolition of Doubting Castle.
Then he said: Who will come with me?
Then old Honest said: I will.
And so will we, said Christiana's four sons, Matthew, Samuel, James and Joseph; because they were young men and strong.
So they left the women on the road, and with them Mr. Feeble-mind and Mr. Ready-to-halt with his crutches, to be their guard until they came back; because in that place, close as Giant Despair lived, so long as they kept to the road a little child could have led them.
So Mr. Great-heart, old Honest and the four young men went up to Doubting Castle to look for Giant Despair. When they came to the castle gate, they knocked for admission with an extraordinary racket. At which the old Giant came to the gate, with Diffidence his wife following.
Then he said: Who is it, and what is he, that is bold enough to come and disturb Giant Despair like this?
Mr. Great-heart replied: It is I, Great-heart, one of the escorts who bring the King of the Celestial Country's pilgrims to their place. And I demand that you open your gates and let me in. Get ready to fight as well, because I have come to take off your head and demolish Doubting Castle.
Now Giant Despair, being a giant, thought no man could beat him; and again he thought, since I have conquered angels before now, shall Great-heart make me afraid? So he armed himself and came out. He had a steel cap on his head and a breastplate of fire strapped to him, and he came out in iron shoes with a great club in his hand.
Then these six men closed on him and set on him from front and behind. And when Diffidence the giantess came up to help him, old Mr. Honest cut her down at a single blow. Then they fought for their lives, and Giant Despair was brought down to the ground — but he was very unwilling to die. He struggled hard, and had, as they say, as many lives as a cat. But Great-heart was the death of him, because he did not leave off until he had cut his head from his shoulders.
Then they set about demolishing Doubting Castle, which as you can imagine was easily enough done, now that Giant Despair was dead. They were seven days destroying it; and inside it they found, of pilgrims, one Mr. Despondency, almost starved to death, and one Much-afraid, his daughter. These two they brought out alive. But it would have astonished you to see the dead bodies lying here and there in the castle yard, and how full of dead men's bones the dungeon was.
When Mr. Great-heart and his companions had carried out this exploit, they took Mr. Despondency and his daughter Much-afraid under their protection; because they were honest people, for all that they had been prisoners in Doubting Castle to that tyrant Giant Despair.
So, as I say, they took the Giant's head with them — his body they had buried under a heap of stones — and came down to the road and to their companions, and showed them what they had done.
Now when Feeble-mind and Ready-to-halt saw that it really was the head of Giant Despair, they were tremendously cheerful and merry. Now Christiana, when there was need of it, could play the viol, and her daughter Mercy the lute. So, since they were all in such a merry mood, she played them a piece, and Ready-to-halt would dance. So he took Despondency's daughter, Much-afraid, by the hand, and off they went dancing in the road. It is true that he could not dance without one crutch in his hand; but I promise you he footed it well. And the girl deserved credit too, because she answered the music handsomely.
As for Mr. Despondency, the music did not do much for him; he was for eating rather than dancing, since he was very nearly starved. So Christiana gave him some out of her bottle of cordial for immediate relief, and then got him something to eat; and in a little while the old gentleman came round, and began to revive nicely.
Now I saw in my dream that when all this was finished, Mr. Great-heart took the head of Giant Despair and set it on a pole beside the highway, directly opposite the pillar Christian had put up to warn pilgrims who came after him not to go onto his grounds.
Though Doubting Castle has been demolished, and Giant Despair has lost his head, sin can rebuild the Castle, make it stand, and make Despair the Giant live again.
Then underneath, on a marble stone, he wrote these verses:
This is the head of him whose name alone in former times did pilgrims terrify. His Castle's down; and Diffidence, his wife, brave Master Great-heart has bereft of life. Despondency, and his daughter Much-afraid — for them as well Great-heart the man has played. Whoever doubts it, if he'll cast his eye up here, may all his scruples satisfy. This head also, when doubting cripples dance, shows that from all their fears they have deliverance.
When these men had shown themselves so bravely against Doubting Castle, and had killed Giant Despair, they went forward; and went on until they came to the Delectable Mountains, where Christian and Hopeful refreshed themselves with all the good things of the place. They also got to know the shepherds there, who welcomed them to the Delectable Mountains as they had welcomed Christian before.
Now the Shepherds, seeing such a large party following Mr. Great-heart — for they knew him well — said to him: Good sir, you have a fine company here. Tell us, where did you find them all?
Then Mr. Great-heart replied:
First, here is Christiana and her train, her sons and her sons' wives, who like the Wain keep by the pole, and steer by compass, so from sin to grace — or they'd not be here. Next, here's old Honest come on pilgrimage; Ready-to-halt as well, who, I'll engage, is true of heart; and so is Feeble-mind, who was not willing to be left behind. Despondency, good man, is coming after, and so is Much-afraid as well, his daughter. May we have lodging here — or must we still go further on? Let us know what to trust.
Then the Shepherds said: This is a comforting company. You are welcome to us, because we have comfort for the feeble as much as for the strong. Our Prince keeps an eye on what is done to the least of these; so infirmity must be no bar to our hospitality.
So they took them to the palace door, and then said to them: Come in, Mr. Feeble-mind; come in, Mr. Ready-to-halt; come in, Mr. Despondency, and Mrs. Much-afraid, his daughter. These, Mr. Great-heart, said the Shepherds to the guide, we call in by name, because they are the most liable to hang back. But as for you and the rest who are strong, we leave you to your usual freedom.
Then Mr. Great-heart said: Today I can see that grace shines in your faces, and that you really are my Lord's Shepherds; because you have not shoved these sick ones aside with side or shoulder, but have rather strewn their way into the palace with flowers, as you should.
So the feeble and the weak went in, and Mr. Great-heart and the rest followed after. When they were seated too, the Shepherds said to those of the weaker sort: What would you like? Because, they said, everything here must be managed for the support of the weak as well as for the warning of the unruly.
So they made them a feast of things easy to digest, and pleasant to the taste, and nourishing; and when they had had it, they went to their rest, each one to his own proper place.
When morning came — because the mountains were high and the day was clear, and because it was the Shepherds' custom to show Pilgrims some rarities before they left — after they were ready and had refreshed themselves, the Shepherds took them out into the fields and showed them first what they had shown Christian before. Then they took them to some new places.
The first was Mount Marvel, where they looked and saw a man in the distance tumbling the hills about with words. Then they asked the Shepherds what that should mean. So they told them that the man was a son of one Great-grace, whom you read about in the First Part of the Records of the Pilgrim's Progress; and that he is set there to teach pilgrims how to believe down, or tumble out of their way, whatever difficulties they meet with, by faith.
Then Mr. Great-heart said: I know him. He is a man above many.
Then they took them to another place, called Mount Innocent; and there they saw a man dressed all in white, and two men, Prejudice and Ill-will, constantly throwing dirt at him. Now, whatever dirt they threw at him would fall off again in a little while, and his clothes would look as clean as if no dirt had ever been thrown at them.
Then the Pilgrims said: What does this mean?
The Shepherds answered: This man's name is Godly-man, and this clothing is to show the innocence of his life. Now those who throw dirt at him are people who hate his doing good. But as you can see the dirt will not stick on his clothes, so it will be with anybody who truly lives innocently in the world. Whoever they are who would like to make such men dirty, they are all labouring in vain; because God, once a little time has gone by, will cause their innocence to break out like the light, and their righteousness like the noonday.
Then they took them to Mount Charity, where they showed them a man with a bundle of cloth lying in front of him, out of which he was cutting coats and clothes for the poor standing round him — and yet his bundle, or roll, of cloth was never any the smaller.
Then they said: What is this meant to be?
This is, said the Shepherds, to show you that the man who has a heart to give away what he works for to the poor shall never lack anything. He who waters shall himself be watered. And the cake the widow gave the Prophet did not leave her any the less in her barrel.
They also took them to a place where they saw one Fool and one Want-wit washing an Ethiopian, with the intention of making him white; but the more they washed him, the blacker he was.
Then they asked the Shepherds what that should mean. So they told them, saying: So it will be with the vile person. All the means used to get such a man a good name will in the end only make him more detestable. So it was with the Pharisees, and so it will be with all hypocrites.
Then Mercy, Matthew's wife, said to Christiana her mother: Mother, if it could be arranged, I would like to see the hole in the hill — the one commonly called the byway to hell.
So her mother mentioned it to the Shepherds. Then they went to the door. It was in the side of a hill, and they opened it and told Mercy to listen for a while. So she listened, and heard one saying: Cursed be my father, for holding my feet back from the way of peace and life. And another said: Oh, if only I had been torn to pieces before I had saved my life and lost my soul! And another said: If I could live again, how I would deny myself, rather than come to this place!
Then it was as though the very earth groaned and shook under the young woman's feet for fear. So she went white, and came away trembling, saying: Blessed be the man and the woman who are delivered from this place.
Now when the Shepherds had shown them all these things, they took them back to the palace and entertained them with what the house could provide. But Mercy, being young and pregnant, longed for something she saw there, and was ashamed to ask for it. Her mother-in-law then asked her what was wrong with her, because she looked unwell.
Then Mercy said: There is a looking-glass hanging up in the dining room that I cannot get out of my mind. If I do not have it, I think I shall lose the child.
Then her mother said: I will mention what you want to the Shepherds, and they will not refuse you.
But she said: I am ashamed for these men to know that I had such a longing.
No, my daughter, said she — it is no shame but a virtue to long for a thing like that.
So Mercy said: Then, mother, if you would, ask the Shepherds whether they are willing to sell it.
Now the glass was one in a thousand. Looked at one way, it would show a person his own features exactly; and turn it another way, and it would show the very face and likeness of the Prince of Pilgrims himself. Yes — I have talked with people who can tell, and they have said that they have seen the very crown of thorns on his head by looking in that glass, and have seen in it too the holes in his hands and his feet and his side. Indeed, there is such an excellence in that glass that it will show him to a person however they have a mind to see him: living or dead, on earth or in heaven, in his humiliation or in his exaltation, coming to suffer or coming to reign.
So Christiana went to the Shepherds privately — now the names of the Shepherds are Knowledge, Experience, Watchful and Sincere — and said to them: One of my daughters is pregnant, and I think she is longing for something she has seen in this house; and she thinks she will lose the child if you refuse her.
Experience. Call her, call her. She shall certainly have whatever we can help her to.
So they called her and said to her: Mercy, what is this thing you would like to have?
Then she blushed, and said: The great glass hanging up in the dining room.
So Sincere ran and fetched it, and it was given her with a glad heart. Then she bowed her head and gave thanks, and said: By this I know that I have found favour in your eyes.
They also gave the other young women whatever they wanted, and gave their husbands great praise for having joined with Mr. Great-heart in killing Giant Despair and demolishing Doubting Castle.
The Shepherds put a bracelet round Christiana's neck, and did the same for her four daughters; and they put earrings in their ears and jewels on their foreheads.
When they had a mind to go, they let them go in peace — but they did not give them the particular warnings that had been given to Christian and his companion before. The reason was that these had Great-heart for their guide, who was a man well acquainted with the way, and so could give them their warnings at a better moment: that is, just when the danger was coming near.
The warnings Christian and his companion had been given by the Shepherds they had also lost by the time they needed to put them into practice. So here was the advantage this company had over the other.
From here they went on singing, and said:
See how fittingly the stages are set out for the relief of those who pilgrims are! And how they take us in without a check, who make the other life our mark and home! Whatever novelties they have they give us, so that we Pilgrims may live joyful lives; they lay such things upon us, too, as show that we are Pilgrims, wherever we may go.
When they had left the Shepherds, they soon came to the place where Christian met one Turn-away, who lived in the town of Apostasy. So Mr. Great-heart their guide reminded them of him, saying: This is the place where Christian met one Turn-away, who carried the record of his rebellion on his back. And this I have to say about the man: he would listen to no advice; once he had fallen, no persuasion could stop him.
When he came to the place where the Cross and the Tomb are, he met somebody who told him to look at them; but he ground his teeth and stamped, and said he was determined to go back to his own town. Before he came to the gate, he met Evangelist, who offered to lay hands on him and turn him back into the road. But this Turn-away resisted him; and after treating him with great contempt, he got away over the wall and so escaped his hand.
Then they went on. And just at the place where Little-faith was robbed before, there stood a man with his sword drawn and his face all bloody.
Then Mr. Great-heart said: Who are you?
The man answered, saying: My name is Valiant-for-truth. I am a pilgrim, and I am going to the Celestial City. Now, as I was on my way, three men set on me and put these three things to me. First, whether I would become one of them. Second, or go back where I came from. Third, or die on the spot.
To the first I answered that I had been an honest man a long while, and so it could not be expected that I should now throw in my lot with thieves. Then they demanded what I had to say to the second; so I told them that if I had not found the place I came from thoroughly uncomfortable I would never have left it at all, but that finding it entirely unsuitable and quite unprofitable for me, I had left it for this road. Then they asked me what I said to the third; and I told them that my life cost me far too dear for me to give it away lightly. Besides, said I, you have no business putting things to my choice like this; so if you interfere, it is at your own peril.
Then these three — Wild-head, Inconsiderate and Pragmatic — drew on me, and I drew on them.
So we set to, one against three, for more than three hours. They have left some of the marks of their valour on me, as you see, and have carried off some of mine as well. They have only just gone. I suppose they may, as the saying goes, have heard your horses coming, and so took to their heels.
Great-heart. But those were great odds — three against one.
Valiant-for-truth. It is true; but few or many are nothing to a man who has the truth on his side. "Though an army should camp against me," said one, "my heart shall not fear; though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident." Besides, he says, I have read in certain records that one man has fought an army. And how many did Samson kill with the jawbone of a donkey?
Great-heart. Then the guide said: Why did you not shout out, so that somebody might have come to your help?
Valiant-for-truth. So I did — to my King, who I knew could hear, and could give invisible help; and that was enough for me.
Great-heart. Then Great-heart said to Mr. Valiant-for-truth: You have conducted yourself worthily. Let me see your sword.
So he showed it him. And when he had taken it in his hand and looked at it a while, he said: Ha! This is a genuine Jerusalem blade.
Valiant-for-truth. It is. Let a man have one of these blades, with a hand to wield it and the skill to use it, and he may take on an angel with it. He need not fear it will fail him, if he only knows how to lay on. Its edges will never go blunt. It will cut flesh and bones, and soul and spirit, and everything.
Great-heart. But you fought a long while. I wonder you were not tired out.
Valiant-for-truth. I fought until my sword stuck to my hand; and when the two were joined together, as though a sword had grown out of my arm, and when the blood ran through my fingers — then I fought with the most courage of all.
Great-heart. You have done well. You have "resisted to the point of blood, striving against sin." You shall stay with us, and come in and go out with us; because we are your companions.
Then they took him and washed his wounds, and gave him what they had to refresh him; and so they went on together. Now, as they went along — because Mr. Great-heart was delighted with him, since he greatly loved anybody he found to be a fighting man, and because there were feeble and weak ones in his company — he questioned him about a good many things. First, what country he came from.
Valiant-for-truth. I am from Dark-land; because I was born there, and my father and mother are there still.
Great-heart. Dark-land, said the guide — does that not lie on the same coast as the City of Destruction?
Valiant-for-truth. Yes, it does. Now what made me come on pilgrimage was this. One Mr. Tell-true came into our parts, and he told everybody what Christian had done, who went from the City of Destruction: namely, how he had left his wife and children and taken up a pilgrim's life. It was also confidently reported how he had killed a serpent that came out to stop him on his journey, and how he got through to where he meant to go. It was also told what a welcome he had at all his Lord's lodgings, and especially when he came to the gates of the Celestial City — because there, said the man, he was received with the sound of a trumpet, by a company of Shining Ones. He told too how all the bells in the city rang for joy at his reception, and what golden clothes he was dressed in, along with a great many other things I will not go into now.
In a word, that man told the story of Christian and his travels in such a way that my heart fell into a burning hurry to be off after him. Neither father nor mother could hold me. So I got away from them, and I have come this far on my road.
Great-heart. You came in at the gate, did you not?
Valiant-for-truth. Yes, yes — because the same man told us as well that it would all come to nothing if we did not begin this road by entering at the gate.
Great-heart. Do you see, said the guide to Christiana — your husband's pilgrimage, and what he has gained by it, is spread abroad far and near.
Valiant-for-truth. Why — is this Christian's wife?
Great-heart. Yes, it is. And these are her four sons.
Valiant-for-truth. What — and going on pilgrimage too?
Great-heart. Yes, truly; they are following after him.
Valiant-for-truth. It gladdens my heart. Good man! How joyful he will be when he sees the very people who would not go with him coming in after him at the gates of the City!
Great-heart. Without a doubt it will be a comfort to him; because next to the joy of seeing himself there, it will be a joy to meet his wife and children there.
Valiant-for-truth. But now that you are on that subject, let me hear your opinion about it. Some people raise the question whether we shall know one another when we are there.
Great-heart. Do they think they will know themselves then, or that they will rejoice to see themselves in that bliss? And if they think they will know and do these things, why not know others, and rejoice in their welfare too?
And again: since our relations are our second selves, though that condition will be dissolved there, still, why may we not reasonably conclude that we shall be gladder to see them there than to see that they are missing?
Valiant-for-truth. Well, I can see where you stand on this. Have you any more things to ask me about my setting out on pilgrimage?
Great-heart. Yes. Were your father and mother willing for you to become a pilgrim?
Valiant-for-truth. Oh no. They used every means imaginable to persuade me to stay at home.
Great-heart. What could they say against it?
Valiant-for-truth. They said it was an idle life; and that if I were not naturally inclined to sloth and laziness, I would never approve of a pilgrim's way of living.
Great-heart. And what else did they say?
Valiant-for-truth. Why, they told me it was a dangerous road — indeed that the most dangerous road in the world, they said, is the one the pilgrims go.
Great-heart. Did they show how this road is so dangerous?
Valiant-for-truth. Yes, and in a great many particulars.
Great-heart. Name some of them.
Valiant-for-truth. They told me about the Slough of Despond, where Christian was very nearly smothered. They told me there were archers standing ready in Beelzebub's Castle to shoot anybody who knocked at the little gate to get in. They told me too about the wood and the dark mountains, about the Hill Difficulty, about the lions, and about the three giants, Bloody-man, Maul and Slay-good. They said as well that there was a foul fiend haunting the Valley of Humiliation, and that Christian was nearly killed by him. Besides which, they said, you must go over the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where the hobgoblins are, where the light is darkness, and where the road is full of snares and pits and traps. They told me about Giant Despair as well, and Doubting Castle, and the disaster the Pilgrims met with there. Further, they said I must go over the Enchanted Ground, which was dangerous. And that after all this I should find a river with no bridge over it, and that that river lay between me and the Celestial Country.
Great-heart. And was that all?
Valiant-for-truth. No. They also told me that this road was full of deceivers, and of people lying in wait there to turn good men off the path.
Great-heart. But how did they make that out?
Valiant-for-truth. They told me that Mr. Worldly-Wiseman lay in wait there to deceive people. They said too that Formalist and Hypocrisy were constantly on the road. They also said that By-ends, or Talkative, or Demas would very likely pick me up; that the Flatterer would catch me in his net; or that, like raw green Ignorance, I would presume to go on to the gate, from which he was always sent back to the hole in the side of the hill, and made to go the byway to hell.
Great-heart. I must say that was enough to discourage anybody. But did they stop there?
Valiant-for-truth. No — wait. They also told me about a great many who had tried that road in the old days, and had gone a long way down it to see whether they could find any of that glory there that so many had talked so much about from time to time; and how they came back again and called themselves fools for ever setting a foot out of doors on that path — to the satisfaction of the whole country. And they named several who had done so: Obstinate and Pliable, Mistrust and Timorous, Turn-away and old Atheist, and several more, some of whom, they said, had gone a long way to see whether they could find anything — and not one of them had got as much advantage out of going as would weigh a feather.
Great-heart. Did they say anything more to discourage you?
Valiant-for-truth. Yes. They told me about a Mr. Fearing who was a pilgrim, and how he found this road so lonely that he never had a comfortable hour on it. Also that Mr. Despondency had nearly been starved on it. Yes — and also, which I had almost forgotten, that Christian himself, about whom there has been such a noise, after all his ventures for a heavenly crown, was certainly drowned in the Black River and never went a foot further, however much it was hushed up.
Great-heart. And did none of this discourage you?
Valiant-for-truth. No. It all seemed like so much nothing to me.
Great-heart. How did that come about?
Valiant-for-truth. Why, I still believed what Mr. Tell-true had said, and that carried me past the lot of it.
Great-heart. Then this was your victory — your faith.
Valiant-for-truth. It was. I believed, by the grace of God, and so I came out, and got onto the road, and fought everything that set itself against me; and by believing I have come this far.
Who would true valour see, let him come hither; one here will constant be, come wind, come weather. There's no discouragement shall make him once relent his first avowed intent to be a pilgrim. Whoever beset him round with dismal stories do but themselves confound; his strength the more is. No lion can him fright, he'll with a giant fight, but he will have a right to be a pilgrim. Hobgoblin nor foul fiend can daunt his spirit; he knows he at the end shall life inherit. Then fancies fly away, he'll fear not what men say; he'll labour night and day to be a pilgrim.
By this time they had got to the Enchanted Ground, where the air naturally makes a person drowsy. That place was all overgrown with briars and thorns, except here and there where there was an Enchanted Arbour; and if a man sits down in one of those, or falls asleep in one, it is an open question, some say, whether he will ever get up or wake again in this world.
So over this forest they went, one and all; and Mr. Great-heart went in front, since he was the guide, and Mr. Valiant-for-truth came behind as a rearguard, for fear that some fiend or dragon or giant or thief might fall on their rear and do them harm. They went on here with every man's sword drawn in his hand, because they knew it was a dangerous place. They also encouraged one another as well as they could. Mr. Great-heart ordered Feeble-mind to come along right behind him, and Mr. Despondency was kept under Mr. Valiant's eye.
Now they had not gone far before a great mist and darkness came down on them all, so that for a long while they could hardly see one another. So they were forced for some time to feel for each other with words, because they were certainly not walking by sight.
But anybody can imagine that this was poor going for the best of them, and how much worse for the women and children, who were tender in both feet and heart. Yet so it was that, by the encouraging words of the man leading in front and the man bringing them up behind, they managed a fairly good job of struggling along.
The road here was very wearisome too, with all the mud and the sliminess. Nor was there on all this ground so much as one inn or eating house where the feebler ones could refresh themselves. So there was grunting here, and puffing, and sighing. One of them tumbles over a bush, another sticks fast in the mud, and some of the children lost their shoes in the mire. One cries out, I am down! and another, Hey — where are you? and a third, The bushes have got such a hold of me, I do not think I can get away from them.
Then they came to an arbour, warm and promising a great deal of refreshment to the Pilgrims; because it was finely worked overhead, decorated with greenery, and furnished with benches and seats. It also had a soft couch in it, where the weary could lie back. All things considered, you may imagine this was tempting, because the Pilgrims were already beginning to be worn down by the badness of the road. But there was not one of them who so much as suggested stopping there.
Indeed, so far as I could see, they paid such constant attention to their guide's advice, and he told them so faithfully about dangers, and about the nature of dangers, at the very moment they were in them, that usually when they were closest to them they were the most heartened, and the most ready to encourage one another to deny the flesh. This arbour was called The Slothful's Friend, put there on purpose to lure some of the pilgrims, if it could, into taking their rest there when they were tired.
Then I saw in my dream that they went on across this lonely ground until they came to a place where a man is likely to lose his way. Now, although in daylight their guide could tell well enough how to avoid the roads that led the wrong way, in the dark he was brought to a stop. But he had in his pocket a map of all the roads leading to and from the Celestial City. So he struck a light — because he never goes without his tinderbox either — and took a look at his book, or map, which told him to be careful at this place to take the right-hand road.
And if he had not been careful to look at his map here, in all probability they would all have been smothered in the mud; because just a little ahead of them, and at the end of the cleanest-looking road at that, there was a pit, nobody knows how deep, full of nothing but mud, made there on purpose to destroy the Pilgrims.
Then I thought to myself: who that goes on pilgrimage would not want one of these maps about him, so that he can look at it when he is brought to a stand, and see which way he has to take?
So they went on across the Enchanted Ground until they came to where there was another arbour, built beside the highway. And in that arbour two men were lying, whose names were Heedless and Too-bold. These two had got this far on pilgrimage; but here, being worn out with their journey, they had sat down to rest and fallen fast asleep.
When the Pilgrims saw them, they stood still and shook their heads, because they knew the sleepers were in a pitiful state. Then they discussed what to do — whether to go on and leave them sleeping, or to go over to them and try to wake them. So they decided to go to them and wake them if they could, but with this precaution: to take care that they did not sit down themselves, or accept the comfort the arbour was offering.
So they went in and spoke to the men and called them each by name, because the guide, it seems, knew them. But there was no voice and no answer. Then the guide shook them and did everything he could to rouse them.
Then one of them said: I will pay you when I get my money. At which the guide shook his head.
I will fight as long as I can hold my sword in my hand, said the other. At which one of the children laughed.
Christiana. Then Christiana said: What does this mean?
The guide said: They are talking in their sleep. If you struck them, or beat them, or did anything else to them, they would answer you in the same way. Or, as one man said long ago, when the waves of the sea were beating on him and he slept like a man on a ship's mast: "When shall I awake? I will seek it yet again."
You know that when men talk in their sleep they say anything at all, and their words are governed neither by faith nor by reason. There is an incoherence in their words now, just as there was before between their going on pilgrimage and their sitting down here.
And this is the mischief of it: when heedless people go on pilgrimage, it is twenty to one that they get served like this. Because this Enchanted Ground is one of the last refuges the enemy of pilgrims has. That is why it is placed, as you see, almost at the end of the road, so that it stands against us with all the more advantage. Because the enemy thinks: when will these fools be so eager to sit down as when they are tired? And when are they so likely to be tired as when they are almost at the end of their journey?
That is why, I say, the Enchanted Ground is placed so close to the Land of Beulah, and so near the end of their race. So let pilgrims look out for themselves, in case it happens to them as it has happened to these, who as you can see have fallen asleep, and whom nobody can wake.
Then the Pilgrims wanted, trembling, to go forward; only they asked their guide to strike a light, so that they might go the rest of their road by the help of a lantern. So he struck a light, and they went by the help of it through the rest of this stretch, though the darkness was very great.
But the children began to be badly tired out, and they cried out to the one who loves pilgrims to make their road more comfortable. So by the time they had gone a little further, a wind got up that drove the fog away, and the air became clearer.
They were still a long way from being off the Enchanted Ground; only now they could see one another better, and see the road they were to walk on.
Now when they were almost at the end of this ground, they became aware that a little way ahead of them there was the solemn sound of somebody in great distress. So they went on and looked ahead; and there, as they thought, they saw a man on his knees, with his hands and his eyes lifted up, speaking, so it seemed to them, earnestly to One who was above. They came nearer, but could not make out what he said. So they went quietly until he had finished.
When he had finished, he got up and began to run towards the Celestial City. Then Mr. Great-heart called after him, saying: Hello there, friend! Let us have your company, if you are going, as I suppose you are, to the Celestial City.
So the man stopped, and they came up to him. But as soon as Mr. Honest saw him he said: I know this man.
Then Mr. Valiant-for-truth said: Tell us, who is he?
He is one, said he, who comes from near where I lived. His name is Stand-fast, and he is certainly a thoroughly good pilgrim.
So they came up to one another; and Stand-fast said at once to old Honest: Hello, father Honest — are you here?
Yes, said he, that I am, as surely as you are.
I am very glad, said Mr. Stand-fast, to have found you on this road.
And I am just as glad, said the other, to have caught sight of you on your knees.
Then Mr. Stand-fast blushed and said: But did you see me?
Yes, I did, said the other, and my heart was glad at the sight.
Why — what did you think? said Stand-fast.
Think! said old Honest. What should I think? I thought we had an honest man on the road, and that we should have his company before long.
If you thought no worse than that, said Stand-fast, how happy I am. But if I am not what I ought to be, I must bear it alone.
That is true, said the other; but your fear only confirms me further that things are right between the Prince of Pilgrims and your soul; because it is said, "Blessed is the man who fears always."
Valiant-for-truth. Well, but brother, tell us please — what was it that brought you to your knees just now? Was it that some special mercies had laid an obligation on you, or what?
Stand-fast. Why — we are, as you see, on the Enchanted Ground. And as I was coming along I was thinking to myself what a dangerous stretch of road this place is, and how many people who had come even this far on pilgrimage had been stopped here and destroyed. I was thinking too about the kind of death this place destroys men with. Those who die here do not die of any violent illness. The death such men die is not painful to them; because the man who goes off in a sleep begins that journey with desire and pleasure. Yes — men like that consent to the sickness that is killing them.
Honest. Then Mr. Honest interrupted him and said: Did you see the two men asleep in the arbour?
Stand-fast. Yes, yes — I saw Heedless and Too-bold there; and for all I know they will lie there until they rot. But let me go on with my tale.
As I was thinking these things over, as I say, there was one in very pleasant clothes, but old, who presented herself to me and offered me three things: her body, her purse and her bed. Now the truth is I was both tired and sleepy; and I am also as poor as an owlet, which perhaps the witch knew.
Well, I repulsed her once and twice, but she brushed my refusals aside and smiled. Then I began to get angry, but that did not matter to her in the least. Then she made her offers again, and said that if I would be guided by her she would make me great and happy; because, she said, I am the mistress of the world, and men are made happy by me.
Then I asked her name, and she told me it was Madam Bubble. This put me further off from her than ever; but she still came after me with her enticements. Then I took myself to my knees, as you saw, and with my hands lifted up and with crying out, I prayed to the one who has said he would help. So, just as you came up, the gentlewoman went off. Then I went on giving thanks for this great deliverance of mine; because I truly believe she meant no good, but was rather looking to bring me to a stop on my journey.
Honest. Without a doubt her designs were bad. But wait — now that you speak of her, I think I have either seen her or read some account of her.
Stand-fast. Perhaps you have done both.
Honest. Madam Bubble! Is she not a tall, handsome woman, with something of a dark complexion?
Stand-fast. Right — you have hit it. She is exactly that.
Honest. Does she not speak very smoothly, and give you a smile at the end of a sentence?
Stand-fast. You have hit it again, because those are her very mannerisms.
Honest. Does she not wear a great purse at her side, and is not her hand often inside it, fingering her money, as though that were her heart's delight?
Stand-fast. That is just it. If she had been standing here all this while, you could not have set her out in front of me more fully, or described her features better.
Honest. Then the man who drew her picture was a good artist, and the man who wrote about her told the truth.
Great-heart. This woman is a witch, and it is by the power of her sorceries that this ground is enchanted. Whoever lays his head down in her lap might as well lay it down on the block with the axe hanging over it; and whoever lets his eyes rest on her beauty is counted an enemy of God. This is the woman who keeps all the enemies of pilgrims in their splendour. Yes — this is the woman who has bought many a man off from a pilgrim's life.
She is a great gossip. She and her daughters are always at one pilgrim's heels or another, first praising and then recommending the excellences of this life. She is a bold and shameless creature; she will talk to any man. She always laughs poor pilgrims to scorn, but praises the rich to the skies. If there is somebody clever at making money in a place, she will speak well of him from house to house. She loves banqueting and feasting enormously; she is always at one loaded table or another. She has given it out in some places that she is a goddess, and so some people worship her. She has her own times and public places for cheating; and she will say, and swear to it, that nobody can show a good to compare with hers. She promises to live with your children's children, if only they will love her and make much of her. She will throw gold out of her purse like dust, in certain places and to certain people. She loves to be sought after, and spoken well of, and to lie in men's arms. She is never tired of advertising her wares, and she loves best the men who think best of her. She will promise some men crowns and kingdoms if only they will take her advice — and yet she has brought many a man to the gallows, and ten thousand times more to hell.
Stand-fast. Oh, said Stand-fast, what a mercy it is that I resisted! Because where might she have dragged me to?
Great-heart. Where! No, nobody but God knows where. But in general, certainly, she would have dragged you into "many foolish and hurtful desires, which drown men in destruction and ruin."
It was she who set Absalom against his father, and Jeroboam against his master. It was she who persuaded Judas to sell his Lord, and who prevailed on Demas to abandon the godly pilgrim's life. Nobody can tell the mischief she does. She makes trouble between rulers and subjects, between parents and children, between neighbour and neighbour, between a man and his wife, between a man and himself, between the flesh and the heart.
So, good Master Stand-fast, be what your name says you are; and "when you have done everything, stand."
At this speech there was among the Pilgrims a mixture of joy and trembling; but at last they broke out and sang:
What danger is the pilgrim in! How many are his foes! How many ways there are to sin no living mortal knows. Some shy away from the ditch, and yet lie tumbling in the mire; some, though they shun the frying pan, go leaping in the fire.
After this I watched until they had come into the Land of Beulah, where the sun shines night and day. Here, because they were tired, they took themselves off to rest for a while; and because this country is common ground for pilgrims, and because the orchards and vineyards here belonged to the King of the Celestial country, they were licensed to help themselves freely to anything of his.
But a very little while refreshed them here — because the bells rang so, and the trumpets sounded so melodiously and so constantly, that they could not sleep; and yet they got as much refreshment as if they had slept the soundest sleep in the world.
Here too the whole talk of those walking in the streets was, More pilgrims have come to town. And another would answer, saying, And so many went over the water and were let in at the golden gates today. And they would call out again, There is a whole legion of Shining Ones just come to town — by which we know there are more pilgrims on the road; because they come here to wait for them, and to comfort them after all their sorrow.
Then the Pilgrims got up and walked about; and how their ears were filled now with heavenly sounds, and their eyes delighted with heavenly sights! In this land they heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, smelled nothing and tasted nothing that was offensive either to their stomachs or to their minds. Only when they tasted the water of the river they had to cross, they thought that tasted a little bitter on the tongue — though it proved sweeter once it was down.
In this place a record was kept of the names of those who had been pilgrims in the old days, and a history of all the famous deeds they had done. There was a great deal of talk here too about how the river had run high for some, and how it had ebbed while others went over. It has been practically dry for some, while it has overflowed its banks for others.
In this place the children of the town would go into the King's gardens and gather posies for the Pilgrims, and bring them to them very affectionately. Here too grew camphire and spikenard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, with all the trees of frankincense and myrrh and aloes, and all the chief spices. The Pilgrims' rooms were perfumed with these while they stayed here, and with these their bodies were anointed, to prepare them to go over the river when the appointed time came.
Now while they were staying here and waiting for the good hour, there was word about the town that a messenger had come from the Celestial City with a matter of great importance for one Christiana, the wife of Christian the Pilgrim. So inquiry was made for her and the house was found where she was staying; and the messenger presented her with a letter, the contents of which were: "Greetings, good woman. I bring you news that the Master is calling for you, and expects you to stand in his presence, in clothes of immortality, within ten days."
When he had read this letter to her, he gave her along with it a sure token that he was a true messenger and had come to tell her to make haste and be gone. The token was an arrow with a point sharpened with love, let easily into her heart, which by degrees worked in her so effectively that at the appointed time she had to go.
When Christiana saw that her time had come, and that she was the first of this company to go over, she called for Mr. Great-heart her guide and told him how matters stood. So he told her he was heartily glad of the news, and would have been glad if the messenger had come for him. Then she asked him to advise her on how everything should be prepared for her journey. So he told her, saying: it must be so and so; and we who are left behind will go with you to the riverside.
Then she called for her children and gave them her blessing, and told them that she could still read with comfort the mark that had been set on their foreheads, and was glad to see them there with her, and to see that they had kept their clothes so white. Lastly she left the little she had to the poor, and told her sons and her daughters to be ready for when the messenger should come for them.
When she had said these words to her guide and to her children, she called for Mr. Valiant-for-truth and said to him: Sir, you have shown yourself true-hearted everywhere. "Be faithful to death," and my King will give you "a crown of life." I would also beg you to keep an eye on my children, and if at any time you see them faltering, to speak comfortingly to them. As for my daughters, my sons' wives, they have been faithful, and their end will be the fulfilment of the promise upon them.
But to Mr. Stand-fast she gave a ring.
Then she called for old Mr. Honest, and said of him: "Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no deceit."
Then he said: I wish you a fine day when you set out for Mount Zion, and shall be glad to see you go over the river dry-shod.
But she answered: Come wet, come dry, I long to be gone. Because whatever the weather is on my journey, I shall have time enough when I get there to sit down and rest and dry myself.
Then that good man Mr. Ready-to-halt came in to see her. So she said to him: Your journey here has been hard going, but that will make your rest all the sweeter. But keep watch and be ready; because the messenger may come at an hour when you are not expecting him.
After him came Mr. Despondency and his daughter Much-afraid, to whom she said: You ought to remember with thankfulness, for ever, your deliverance from the hands of Giant Despair and out of Doubting Castle. The result of that mercy is that you have been brought here safely. Be watchful, and throw away your fear; "be sober, and hope to the end."
Then she said to Mr. Feeble-mind: You were delivered out of the mouth of Giant Slay-good so that you might live in the light of the living for ever, and see your King with comfort. Only I advise you to repent of how ready you are to be afraid and to doubt his goodness, before he sends for you — in case, when he comes, you are made to stand in front of him blushing for that fault.
Now the day drew on when Christiana had to go. So the road was full of people to see her set out on her journey. But behold, all the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots, which had come down from above to escort her to the city gate.
So she came out and entered the river, with a wave of farewell to those who had followed her to the riverside. The last words she was heard to say here were: I come, Lord, to be with you and bless you.
So her children and friends went back to their places, because those who were waiting 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 before her.
At her going her children wept. But Mr. Great-heart and Mr. Valiant played on the well-tuned cymbal and harp for joy. So they all went off to their own places.
In due course a messenger came to the town again, and his business was with Mr. Ready-to-halt. So he sought him out and said to him: I have come to you in the name of the one you have loved and followed, though on crutches. And my message is to tell you that he expects you at his table to have supper with him in his kingdom, the day after Easter. So get yourself ready for this journey.
Then he also gave him a token that he was a true messenger, saying: I have broken your golden bowl, and loosed your silver cord.
After this Mr. Ready-to-halt called for his fellow pilgrims and told them, saying: I have been sent for, and God will surely visit you too. So he asked Mr. Valiant to make his will; and because he had nothing to leave to those who would outlive him but his crutches and his good wishes, this is what he said: These crutches I leave to my son who shall walk in my footsteps, with a hundred warm wishes that he may turn out better than I have.
Then he thanked Mr. Great-heart for his guidance and his kindness, and so set himself to his journey. When he came to the brink of the river he said: Now I shall have no more need of these crutches, since over there are chariots and horses for me to ride on. The last words he was heard to say were: Welcome, life! So he went on his way.
After this, Mr. Feeble-mind had word brought him that the messenger was sounding his horn at his bedroom door. Then he came in and told him, saying: I have come to tell you that your Master has need of you, and that in a very little while you must see his face in its brightness. And take this as a token of the truth of my message: "Those who look out of the windows shall be darkened."
Then Mr. Feeble-mind called for his friends and told them what errand had been brought to him, and what token he had been given of the truth of the message. Then he said: Since I have nothing to leave to anybody, what would be the point of making a will? As for my feeble mind, I shall leave that behind me, because I have no need of it in the place I am going to. Nor is it worth giving to the poorest pilgrim there is. So when I am gone, I ask that you, Mr. Valiant, would bury it in a dunghill.
This done, and the day having come when he was to leave, he entered the river like the rest. His last words were: Hold out, faith and patience. So he went over to the other side.
When a good many days had gone by, Mr. Despondency was sent for; because a messenger came and brought him this message: Trembling man, these are to summon you to be ready with your King by next Sunday, to shout for joy at your deliverance from all your doubtings.
And, said the messenger, take this as proof that my message is true. So he gave him the grasshopper to be a burden to him.
Now Mr. Despondency's daughter, whose name was Much-afraid, said when she heard what had happened that she would go with her father.
Then Mr. Despondency said to his friends: You know what my daughter and I have been, and how troublesomely we have behaved in every company we were in. Our will, mine and my daughter's, is that our despondencies and our slavish fears should never be taken in by anybody after the day we leave, for ever. Because I know that after my death they will offer themselves to other people. To be plain with you, they are ghosts that we took in when we first began to be pilgrims, and could never afterwards shake off; and they will go walking about looking for lodging among the pilgrims. But for our sakes, shut the doors on them.
When the time came for them to leave, they went to the brink of the river. Mr. Despondency's last words were: Farewell, night; welcome, day. His daughter went through the river singing, but nobody could make out what she said.
Then it happened, a while afterwards, that there was a messenger in the town asking for Mr. Honest. So he came to the house where he was and put these lines into his hand: You are commanded to be ready a week from today, to present yourself before your Lord at his Father's house. And as a token that my message is true, "All your daughters of music shall be brought low."
Then Mr. Honest called for his friends and said to them: I am dying, but I shall make no will. As for my honesty, it goes with me; let whoever comes after be told so.
When the day came when he was to go, he set himself to go over the river. Now at that time the river was overflowing its banks in places; but Mr. Honest in his lifetime had spoken to one Good-conscience to meet him there, which he did, and lent him his hand and so helped him across. Mr. Honest's last words were: Grace reigns. And so he left the world.
After this it was noised about that Mr. Valiant-for-truth had been served with a summons by the same messenger as the others, and had been given this as a token that the summons was true: "That his pitcher was broken at the fountain."
When he understood it, he called for his friends and told them about it. Then he said: I am going to my Father's house. And though I have got here with great difficulty, still I do not now regret any of the trouble I have been to in order to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him who shall come after me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to whoever can get it. My marks and my scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me that I have fought his battles who will now be my Rewarder.
When the day came that he had to go, many went with him to the riverside; and as he went into it he said, "Death, where is your sting?" And as he went down deeper he said, "Grave, where is your victory?"
So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.
Then a summons came out for Mr. Stand-fast — this Mr. Stand-fast was the one the rest of the Pilgrims found on his knees on the Enchanted Ground — because the messenger brought it to him open in his hands. The contents were that he must prepare for a change of life, because his Master was not willing that he should be so far away from him any longer.
At this Mr. Stand-fast fell to thinking. No, said the messenger, you need not doubt the truth of my message, because here is a token of it: "Your wheel is broken at the cistern."
Then he called Mr. Great-heart, who was their guide, and said to him: Sir, although it was not my luck to be much in your good company during the days of my pilgrimage, still, since the time I have known you, you have done me good.
When I came from home, I left behind me a wife and five small children. Let me beg you, on your return — because I know you will go back to your Master's house, in the hope that you may yet be an escort to more of the holy pilgrims — that you send to my family and let them know everything that has happened, or will happen, to me. Tell them, further, about my happy arrival at this place, and about the blessed condition I am in now.
Tell them too about Christian, and about Christiana his wife, and how she and her children came after her husband. Tell them as well what a happy end she made, and where she has gone. I have little or nothing to send my family, unless it be prayers and tears for them; and it will be enough if you tell them of that, in case those may yet do some good.
When Mr. Stand-fast had put things in order like this, and the time had come for him to hurry away, he too went down to the river. Now there was a great calm on the river at that time; so Mr. Stand-fast, when he was about halfway across, stood a while and talked to the companions who had come with him that far. And he said:
This river has been a terror to many; yes, and the thought of it has often frightened me. Now, it seems to me, I stand easy. My foot is fixed on the ground the feet of the priests who carried the ark of the covenant stood on, while Israel went over this Jordan. The water, it is true, is bitter to the tongue and cold to the stomach; and yet the thought of what I am going to, and of the escort waiting for me on the other side, lies like a glowing coal at my heart.
I see myself now at the end of my journey; my toiling days are over. I am going now to see that Head which was crowned with thorns, and that Face which was spat upon for me.
Until now I have lived by hearsay and by faith; but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with the one in whose company I take my delight.
I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there I have wanted to set my own foot too.
His name has been to me like a box of perfume — sweeter, in fact, than any perfume. His voice has been most sweet to me, and I have wanted the sight of his face more than the people who most want the light of the sun. I used to gather his Word for my food, and as an antidote against my faintings. "He has held me, and has kept me from my sins; yes, he has strengthened my steps in his way."
Now, while he was talking like this, his face changed, his strong man bowed under him; and after he had said, Take me, for I am coming to you, he was seen by them no more.
But it was a glorious thing to see how the open country was filled with horses and chariots, with trumpeters and pipers, with singers and players on stringed instruments, to welcome the Pilgrims as they went up and followed one another in at the beautiful gate of the city.
As for Christian's children — the four boys Christiana brought with her, with their wives and their children — I did not stay where I was until they had gone over. And since I came away, I have heard somebody say that they were still alive, and would be for some time yet, for the increase of the church in the place where they were.
Should it be my lot to go that way again, I may give those who want it an account of what I have been silent about here.
In the meantime, I bid my reader goodbye.