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SB 91 



The Five-Foot Shelf of Books 



"The Interpreter then called for a 
Man-servant of his, one Great-heart'* 

— Page 311 


The Pilgrim's Progress 

By John Bunyan 

The Lives 0/ John Donne 
anc/ George Herbert 

By Izaak Walton 

W/M Introductions and ^otes 
Volume 15 

P. F, Collier & Son Corporation 


Copyright. 1909 
By p. F. Collier & Son 





The Author's Apology 5 

The Pilgrim's Progress, in the Similititde of a Dream . . 13 
The Conclusion 166 


The Author's Apology 169 

The Pilgrim's Progress, in the Similitude of a Dream . . 177 
The Author's Vindication of his Pilgrim, Found at the 

End of his Holy War 319 




John Bunyan was born at Elstow, Bedfordshire, England, in Novem- 
ber, 1628. His father was a maker and mender of pots and kettles, and 
the son followed the same trade. Though he is usually called a tinker, 
Bunyan had a setded home and place of business. He had little schooling, 
and he describes his early surroundings as poor and mean. When he was 
not yet sixteen his mother died; in two months his father married again; 
and the son enlisted as a soldier in the Civil War in November, 1644, 
though whether on the Parliamentary or Royalist side is not certain. The 
armies were disbanded in 1646, and about two years later Bunyan mar- 
ried a wife whose piety redeemed him from his delight in rural sport 
and the habit of profane swearing. He became much interested in 
religion, but it was only after a tremendous spiritual conflict, lasting three 
or four years, that he found peace. His struggles are related with extra- 
ordinary vividness and intensity in his "Grace Abounding to the Chief 
of Sinners." In 1655, the year in which he lost his wife, he began to 
exhort, and two years later he became a regular Non<onformist preacher, 
continuing, however, to practise his trade. His success as a preacher 
roused opposition among the regular clergy, and in 1658 he was indicted 
at the assizes. His writing began with a controversy against the Quakers, 
and shows from the first the command of a homely but vigorous style. 

With the reenactment of the laws against non-conformity at the 
Restoration, Bunyan became subject to more severe persecution, and with 
a short intermission he was confined to prison from 1660 till 1672. Again 
and again he might have been released, but he refused to promise to 
desist from preaching, and there was no alternative for the justices but 
to keep him in confinement. Sometimes lax jailers permitted him to 
preach at church meetings; he frequently ministered to his fellow- 
prisoners; and he supported his family, now looked after by a second 
wife, by making laces. He had apparently abundant leisure, for he wrote 
in prison a large number of books, the first one of importance being that 
already mentioned, "Grace Abounding" (1666). "The Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress" was also written in jail, but probably during a later confinement of 
six months in 1675. 

In 1672 Charles II suspended the laws against Non<onformists and 
Roman Catholics, and Bunyan was released. He was called to be min- 
ister to a Non-conformist congregation in Bedford, and preached in the 
barn which served them as a church. But his ministrations were not 


confined to Bedford. He made preaching tours over a wide district, and 
even to London, and attracted great crowds of listeners. Meanwhile he 
continued to write. The first edition of "The Pilgrim's Progress" in 1678 
was followed by others with additions, and in 1684 by the second part. 
"The Life and Death of Mr. Badman" appeared in 1680; "The Holy 
War made by Shaddai upon Diabolus" in 1682. If the works left in 
manuscript at his death be included, the total of his books amounts to 
nearly sixty. He died in 1688, leaving a widow and six children, and a 
personal estate of less than ;Cioo. "The Pilgrim's Progress" became at 
once popular, and has continued to be by far the most widely read of all 
his works, and one of the most universally known of English books. 
Though in the form of an allegory, the narrative interest is so powerful, 
the drawing of jDermanent types of human character is so vigorous, and 
the style is so simple and direct that it takes rank as a great work of 
fiction. The best sides of English Puritanism have here their most ade- 
quate and characteristic expression, while the intensity of Bunyan's 
religious fervor and the universality of the spiritual problems with which 
he deals, raise the work to a place among the great religious classics of 
the world. 



When at the first I too/(^ my Pen in hand 
Thus for to write; I did not understand 
That I at all should mal{e a little Boo\ 
In such a mode; Nay, I had undertool^ 
To mal{e another, which when almost done. 
Before I was aware I this begun. 

And thus it was: I was writing of the Way 
And Race of Saints, in this our Gospel-day, 
Fell suddenly into an Allegory 
About their fourney, and the way to Glory, 
In more than twenty things which I set down: 
This done, I twenty more had in my Crown, 
And they again began to multiply. 
Like spares that from the coals of fire do fly. 
Nay then, thought I, if that you breed so fast, 
I'll put you by yourselves, lest you at last 
Should prove ad infinitum, and eat out 
The Book '^"^ ^ already am about. 

Well, so I did; but yet I did not think 
To shew to all this World my Pen and Ink 
In such a mode; I only thought to make 
I /^nf«/ not what: nor did I undertake 
Thereby to please my Neighbor; no not I; 
I did it mine own self to gratifie. 

Neither did I but vacant seasons spend 
In this my Scribble; nor did I intend 
But to divert myself in doing this 
From worser thoughts which make me do amiss. 

Thus I set Pen to Pape. with delight. 
And quickly had my thoughts in black and white. 
For having now my Method by the end. 
Still as I pull'd, it came; and so I penn'd 


// down, until it came at last to be 

For length and breadth the bigness which you see. 

Well, when I had thus put mine ends together, 
I shew'd them others, that I might see whether 
They would condemn them, or them justifie: 
And some said. Let them live; some. Let them die; 
Some said, John, print it; others said, Not so: 
Some said. It might do good; others said. No. 

Now was I in a straight, and did not see 
Which was the best thing to be done by me: 
At last I thought, Since you are thus divided, 
I print it will, and so the case decided. 

For, thought I, some I see would have it done. 
Though others in that Channel do not run. 
To prove then who advised for the best. 
Thus I thought fit to put it to the test. 

I further thought, if now I did deny 
Those that would have it thus, to gratifie, 
I did not }(now but hinder them I might 
Of that which would to them be great delight. 

For those which were not for its coming forth 
I said to them. Offend you I am loth. 
Yet since your Brethren pleased with it be. 
Forbear to judge till you do further see. 

If that thou wilt not read, let it alone; 
Some love the meat, some love to picl(^ the bone: 
Yea, that I might them better palliate, 
I did too with them thus Exposttdate: 

May I not write in such a stile as this? 
In such a method loo, and yet not miss 
Mine end, thy good? why may it not be done? 
Dar\ Clouds bring Waters, when the bright bring none. 
Yea, darl^ or bright, if they their Silver drops 
Cause to descend, the Earth, by yielding Crops, 
Gives praise to both, and carpeth not at either. 
But treasures up the Fruit they yield together; 
Yea, so commixes both, that in her Fruit 
None can distinguish this from that: they suit 
Her well, when hungry; but, if she be full. 
She spues out both, and makes their blessings null. 


You see the ways the Fisher-man doth taXe 
To catch the Fish; tvhat Engines doth he tna/^e? 
Behold how he engageth all his Wits, 
Also his Snares, Lines, Angles, Hoo/^s, and Nets. 
Yet Fish there be, that neither Hook^, nor Line, 
Nor Snare, nor Net, nor Engine can ma^e thine; 
They must be grop'd for, and be tic/(led too. 
Or they will not be catch' d, whate'er you do. 

How doth the Fowler see\ to catch his Game 
By divers means, all which one cannot name? 
His Gun, his Nets, his Lime-twigs, Light, and Bell; 
He creeps, he goes, he stands; yea who can tell 
Of all his postures? Yet there's none of these 
Will mat{e him master of what Fowls he please. 
Yea, he must Pipe and Whistle to catch this; 
Yet if he does so, that Bird he will miss. 

If that a Pearl may in a Toad's head dwell. 
And may be found too in an Oyster-shell; 
If things that promise nothing do contain 
What better is than Gold; who will disdain, 
That have an in/^ling of it, there to loo/(^. 
That they may find it? Now my little Bool( 
( Though void of all those Paintings that may mal(e 
It with this or the other man to tal(e) 
Is not without those things that do excel 
What do in brave, but empty notions dwell. 

Well, yet I am not fully satisfied. 
That this your Bool( will stand, when soundly try'd. 

Why, what's the matter? It is dar]{. What tho? 
But it is feigned: What of that I tro? 
Some men, by feigning words as darl(^ as mine, 
Mal{e truth to spangle, and its rays to shine. 
But they want solidness. Speal{ man thy mind. 
They drownd the weal(; Metaphors ma^e us blind. 

Solidity indeed becomes the Pen 
Of him that writeth things Divine to men; 
But must I needs want solidness, because 
By Metaphors I speal(? Were not God's Laws, 
His Gospel-Laws, in olden time held forth 
By Types, Shadows, and Metaphors? Yet loth 


Will any sober man be to find fault 
With them, lest he be found for to assault 
The highest Wisdom. No, he rather stoops. 
And seeks 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 speal(eth to him. And happy is he 
That finds the light and grace that in them be. 

Be not too forward therefore to conclude 
That I want solidness, that I am rude: 
All things solid in shew not solid be; 
All things in Parables despise not we; 
Lest things most hurtful lightly we receive. 
And things that good are, of our souls bereave. 

My dar/(^ and cloudy words they do but hold 
The Truth, as Cabinets inclose the Gold. 

The Prophets used much by Metaphors 
To set forth Truth; yea, whoso considers 
Christ, his Apostles too, shall plainly see. 
That Truths to this day in such Mantles be. 

Am I afraid to say that Holy Writ, 
Which for its Stile and Phrase puts down all Wit, 
Is everywhere so full of all these things, 
Dar/(^ Figures, Allegories? Yet there springs 
From that same Bool^ that lustre, and those rays 
Of light, that turns our darl^est nights to days. 

Come, let my Carper to his Life now lool(. 
And find there darl^er lines than in my Boo^ 
He findeth any; Yea, and let him ^now. 
That in his best things there are worse lines too. 

May we but stand before impartial men. 
To his poor One I dare adventure Ten, 
That they will ta\e my meaning in these lines 
Far better than his lies in Silver Shrines. 
Come, Truth, although in Swaddling-clouts, I find. 
Informs the fudgment, rectifies the Mind, 
Pleases the Understanding, ma\es the Will 
Submit; the Memory too it doth fill 
With what doth our Imagination please; 
Likewise it tends our troubles to appease. 

THE author's apology 

Sound words I ^now Timothy is to use. 
And old Wives' Fables he is to refuse; 
But yet grave Paul him nowhere doth forbid 
The use of Parables; in which lay hid 
That Gold, those Pearls, and precious stones that were 
Worth digging for, and that with greatest care. 

Let me add one word more. O man of God, 
Art thou offended? Dost thou wish I had 
Put forth my matter in another dress. 
Or that I had in things been more express? 
Three things let me propound, then I submit 
To those that are my betters, as is fit. 

1. / find not that I am denied the use 
Of this my method, so 1 no abuse 

Put on the Words, Things, Readers; or be rude 
In handling Figure or Similitude, 
In application; but, all that I may, 
Seel^ the advance of Truth this or that way. 
Denied, did I say? Nay, I have leave, 
{Example too, and that from them that have 
God better pleased, by their words or ways. 
Than any man that breatheth now a-days) 
Thus to express my mind, thus to declare 
Things unto thee, that excellentest are. 

2. I find that men {as high as Trees') will write 
Dialogue-wise; yet no man doth them slight 

For writing so; Indeed if they abuse 
Truth, cursed be they, and the craft they use 
To that intent; but yet let Truth be free 
To mal(e her sallies upon thee and me. 
Which way it pleases God. For who t{nows how. 
Better than he that taught us first to Plow, 
To guide our Mind and Pens for his Design? 
And he mal{es base things usher in Divine. 

3. / find that Holy Writ in many places 

Hath semblance with this method, where the cases 
Do call for one thing, to set forth another; 
Use it I may then, and yet nothing smother 
Truth's golden Beams: nay, by this method may 
Ma\e it cast forth its rays as light as day. 


And now, before I do put up my Pen, 
I'll shew the profit of my Boo^, and then 
Commit both thee and it unto that hand 
That pulls the strong down, and ma/^es weal(^ ones stand. 

This Bool{^ it chall{eth out before thine eyes 
The man that see^s the everlasting Prize; 
It shews you whence he comes, whither he goes. 
What he leaves undone, also what he does; 
It also shews you how he runs and runs. 
Till he unto the Gate of Glory comes. 

It shews too, who set out for life amain. 
As if the lasting Crown they would obtain; 
Here also you may see the reason why 
They lose their labour, and li^e Fools do die. 

This Bool^ will mal^e a Traveller of thee. 
If by its Counsel thou wilt ruled be; 
It will direct thee to the Holy Land, 
If thou wilt its directions understand: 
Yea, it will ma^e the slothful active be; 
The blind also delightful things to see. 

Art thou for something rare and profitable? 
Wouldest thou see a Truth within a Fable? 
Art thou forgetful? Wouldest thou remember 
From New-year's-day to the last of December? 
Then read my Fancies, they will stic^ li/^e Burrs, 
And may be to the Helpless, Comforters. 

This Bool(^ is writ in such a Dialect 
As may the minds of listless men a^ect: 
It seems a novelty, and yet contains 
Nothing but sound and honest Gospel strains. 

Would'st thou divert thyself from Melancholy? 
Would'st thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? 
Would'st thou read Riddles, and their Explanation? 
Or else be drowned in thy Contemplation? 
Dost thou love pic}(ing meat? Or would'st thou see 
A man i' th' Clouds, and hear him spea\ to thee? 
Would'st thou be in a Dream, and yet not sleep? 
Or would'st thou in a moment laugh and weep? 
Wouldest thou lose thyself, and catch no harm. 
And find thyself again without a charm? 


Would'st read thyself, and read thou \noiv'st not what. 
And yet /{now whether thou art blest or not, 
By reading the same lines? O then come hither. 
And lay my Boo/{, thy Head, and Heart together. 





AS I walk'd through the wilderness of this world, 
/-\ I lighted on a certain place where was a Den, "^^ !»»• 
JL .X. and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and as 
I slept, I dreamed a Dream. I dreamed, and behold I 
saw a Man cloathed with Rags, standing in a certain 
place, with his face from his own house, a Book in his 
hand, and a great Burden upon his back. I looked, and 
saw him open the Book, and read therein; and as he read, 
he wept and trembled; and not being able longer to con- 
tain, he brake out with a lamentable cry, saying What His outcry 
shall I do? 

In this plight therefore he went home, and refrained 
himself as long as he could, that his Wife and Children 
should not perceive his distress, but he could not be 
silent long, because that his trouble increased: Where- 
fore at length he brake his mind to his Wife and Chil- 
dren; and thus he began to talk to them: O my dear Wife, 
said he, and you the Children of my bowels, I your dear 
friend, am in myself undone by reason of a Burden that 
lieth hard upon me; moreover, I am for certain informed This world 
that this our City will be burned with fire from Heaven; 
in which fearful overthrow, both myself, with thee my 
Wife, and you my sweet Babes, shall miserably come to 
ruine, except {the which yet I see not) some way of 
escape can be found, whereby we may be delivered. At He knows 
this his Relations were sore amazed; not for that they e^apc'^ ° 
believed that what he had said to them was true, but " >=' 
because they thought that some frenzy distemper had got 



into his head; therefore, it drawing towards night, and 
they hoping that sleep might settle his brains, with all 
haste they got him to bed: But the night was as trouble- 
some to him as the day; wherefore, instead of sleeping, 
he spent it in sighs and tears. So, when the morning was 
come, they would know how he did; He told them. 
Worse and worse: he also set to talking to them again. 
Carnal but they began to be hardened: they also thought to 

skk'soul"' ^ drive away his distemper by harsh and surly carriages 
to him; sometimes they would deride, sometimes they 
would chide, and sometimes they would quite neglect 
him: Wherefore he began to retire himself to his cham- 
ber, to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his 
own misery; he would also walk solitarily in the fields, 
sometimes reading, and sometimes praying: and thus 
for some days he spent his time. 

Now, I saw upon a time, when he was walking in 
the fields, that he was, as he was wont, reading in his 
Book, and greatly distressed in his mind; and as he read, 
he burst out, as he had done before, crying. What shall 
1 do to be saved? 

I saw also that he looked this way and that way, as if 
he would run; yet he stood still, because, as I perceived, 
he could not tell which way to go. I looked then, and 
saw a man named Evangelist, coming to him, and asked. 
Wherefore dost thou cry? 

He answered. Sir, I perceive by 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 do the second. 

Christian no sooner leaves the World but meets 
Evangelist, who lovingly him greets 
With tidings of another: and doth shew 
Him how to mount to that from this below. 

Then said Evangelist, Why not willing to die, since this 
life is attended with so many evils ? The Man answered. 
Because I fear that this burden that is upon my back 


will sink me lower than the Grave, and I shall fall into 
Tophet. And, Sir, if I be not fit to go to Prison, I am not 
fit to go to Judgment, and from thence to Execution; and 
the thoughts of these things make me cry. 

Then said Evangelist, If this be thy condition, why Convictiop 
standest thou still? He answered. Because I know not necessity 
whither to go. Then he gave him a Parchment-roll, and °' ^>''"8 
there was written within. Fly from the wrath to come. 

The Man therefore read it, and looking upon Evangelist 
very carefully, said, Whither must I fly? Then said 
Evangelist, pointing with his finger over a very wide 
field. Do you see yonder Wicket-gate? The Man said, Chr>st. and 
No. Then said the other. Do you see yonder shining him cannot 
Light? He said, I think I do. Then said £fa«^<r/«/. Keep ^j/j,''^"JJ'',he 
that Light in your eye, and go up directly thereto: so Word 
shalt thou see the Gate; at which, when thou knockest, 
it shall be told thee what thou shalt do. 

So I saw in my Dream that the Man began to run. "J'^^v 'h*' 

Now he had not run far from his own door, but his ^rath to 
Wife and Children, perceiving it, began to cry after him come are a 
to return; but the Man out his fingers in his ears, and ,„ ^^ v,oM 
ran on, crying Life! Life! Eternal Life! So he looked 
not behind him, but fled towards the middle of the Plain. 

The Neighbors also came out to see him run; and as 
he ran, some mocked, others threatened, and some cried 
after him to return; and among those that did so, there 
were two that resolved to fetch him back by force. The 
name of the one was Obstinate, and the name of the Obstinate 
other Pliable. Now by this time the Man was got a good foUow him 
distance from them; but however they were resolved to 
pursue him, which they did, and in a litde time they 
overtook him. Then said the Man, Neighbors, where- 
fore are you come? They said, To persuade you to go 
back with us. But he said, That can by no means be; 
you dwell, said he, in the City of Destruction, the place 
also where I was born, I see it to be so; and dying there, 
sooner or later, you will sink lower than the Grave, into 



a place that burns with Fire and Brimstone: be content, 
good Neighbors, and go along with me. 

Obst. What, said Obstinate, and leave our friends and 
our comforts behind us! 

Chr. Yes, said Christian, for that was his name, because 
that all which you shall forsake is not worthy to be com- 
pared with a little of that that 1 am seeking to enjoy; and 
if you will go along with me and hold it, you shall fare 
as I myself; for there where I go, is enough and to spare: 
Come away, and prove my words. 

Obst. What are the things you seek, since you leave all 
the world to find them ? 

Chr. I seek an Inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and 
that fadeth not away, and it is laid up in Heaven, and 
safe there, to be bestowed at the time appointed, on 
them that diligently seek it. Read it so, if you will, in 
my Book. 

Obst. Tush, said Obstinate, away with your Book; will 
you go back with us or no ? 

Chr. No, not I, said the other, because I have laid my 
hand to the Plow. 

Obst. Come then, Neighbor Pliable, let us turn again, 
and go home without him; there is a company of these 
craz'd-headed coxcombs, that, when they take a fancy 
by the end, are wiser in their own eyes than seven men 
that can render a reason. 

Pli. Then said Pliable, Don't revile; if what the good 
Christian says is true, the things he looks after are better 
than ours; my heart inclines to go with my Neighbor. 

Obst. What! more fools still? Be ruled by me, and go 
back; who knows whither such a brain-sick fellow will 
lead you ? Go back, go back, and be wise. 

Chr. Come with me, Neighbor Pliable; there are such 
things to be had which I spoke of, and many more 
Pliable's soul Glories besides. If you believe not me, read here in this 
Book; and for the truth of what is exprest therein, behold, 
all is confirmed by the blood of Him that made it. 

and Obsti- 
nate pull fok' 


Pit. Well, Neighbor Obstinate, said Pliable, I begin to Pliable 

, . , , .... J contented 

come to a point: 1 intend to go along with this good man, ,„ go „,t^^ 
and to cast in my lot with him : but, my good companion, Christian 
do you know the way to this desired place.? 

C/ir. I am directed by a man, whose name is Evangelist, 
to speed me to a little Gate that is before us, where we 
shall receive instructions about the way. 

Pli. Come then, good Neighbor, let us be going. Then 
they went both together. 

Obst. And I will go back to my place, said Obstinate; Obstinate 
I will be no companion of such mis-led, fantastical fellows, tack 

Now I saw in my Dream, that when Obstinate was 
gone back. Christian and Pliable went talking over the ^*"' 

° 1111 1 • J- between 

Plain; and thus they began their discourse. christian 

Chr. Come Neighbor Pliable, how do you do? I am and Pliable 

glad you are persuaded to go along with me: Had even 

Obstinate himself but felt what I have felt of the powers 

and terrors of what is yet unseen, he would not thus 

lightly have given us the back. 
Pli. Come, Neighbor Christian, since there are none 

but us two here, tell me now further what the things are, 

and how to be enjoyed, whither we are going.? 
Chr. I can better conceive of them with my Mind, than G«l's ^^'"^ 

, r 1 -I -r 1 ■ unspeakable 

speak or them with my longue: but yet, since you are 
desirous to know, I will read of them in my Book. 

Pli. And do you think that the words of your Book are 
certainly true? 

Chr, Yes, verily; for it was made by him that cannot 

Pli. Well said; what things are they? 

Chr. There is an endless Kingdom to be inhabited, and 
everlasting Life to be given us, that we may inhabit that 
Kingdom for ever. 

Pli. Well said; and what else? 

Chr. There are Crowns of glory to be given us, and 
Garments that will make us shine like the Sun in the 
firmament of Heaven. 

i8 pilgrim's progress 

Pit. This is excellent; and what else? 

Chr. There shall be no more crying, nor sorrow, for 
He that is owner of the place will wipe all tears from 
our eyes. 

Pli. And what company shall we have there? 

Chr. There we shall be with Seraphims and Cherubins, 
creatures that will dazzle your eyes to look on them: 
There also you shall meet with thousands and ten thou- 
sands that have gone before us to that place; none of 
them are hurtful, but loving and holy; every one walking 
in the sight of God, and standing in his presence with 
acceptance for ever. In a word, there we shall see the 
Elders with their golden Crowns, there we shall see the 
Holy Virgins with their golden Harps, there we shall 
see men that by the World were cut in pieces, burnt in 
flames, eaten of beasts, drowned in the seas, for the love 
that they bare to the Lord of the place, all well, and 
doathed with Immortality as with a garment. 

Pli. The hearing of this is enough to ravish one's heart; 
but are these things to be enjoyed ? How shall we get to 
be sharers hereof? 

Chr. The Lord, the Governor of the country, hath 
recorded that in this Book; the substance of which is. If 
we be truly willing to have it, he will bestow it upon 
us freely. 

Pli. Well, my good companion, glad am I to hear of 
these things; come on, let us mend our pace. 

Chr. I cannot go so fast as I would, by reason of this 
Burden that is upon my back. 

Now I saw in my Dream, that just as they had ended 
this talk, they drew near to a very miry Slough, that was 
in the midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did 
The Slough both fall Suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough 
was Dispond. Here therefore they wallowed for a time, 
being grievously bedaubed with the dirt; and Christian, 
because of the Burdea that was on his back, began to 
sink in the mire. 


Pit. Then said Pliable, Ah Neighbor Christian, where 
are you now? 

Chr. Truly, said Christian, I do not know. 

Pli. At that Pliable began to be offended, and angerly '* « n"* 
said to his fellow. Is this the happiness you have told me pliable 
all this while of? If we have such ill speed at our first 
setting out, what may we expect 'twixt this and our 
Journey's end? May I get out again with my life, you 
shall possess the brave Country alone for me. And with 
that he gave a desperate struggle or two, and got out of 
the mire on that side of the Slough which was next to 
his own house: so away he went, and Christian saw him 
no more. 

Wherefore Christian was left to tumble in the Slough Christian in 
of Dispond alone; but still he endeavoured to struggle still to get 
to that side of the Slough that was still further from his i^n\\et from 
own house, and next to the Wicket-gate; the which he house 
did, but could not get out, because of the Burden that 
was upon his back: But I beheld in my Dream, that a 
man came to him, whose name was Help, and asked him. 
What he did there? 

Chr. Sir, said Christian, I was bid go this way by a 
man called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder 
Gate, that I might escape the wrath to come; and as I was 
going thither, I fell in here. 

Help. But why did you not look for the steps? Theprom- 

Chr. Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the next way, "*' 
and fell in. 

Help. Then said he, Give me thy hand: so he gave Help lifts 
him his hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon 
sound ground, and bid him go on his way. 

Then I stepped to him that pluckt him out, and said. 
Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the 
City of Destruction to yonder Gate, is it that this plat 
is not mended, that poor travellers might go thither with 
more security ? And he said unto me. This miry Slough W''" make* 
is such a place as cannot be mended; it is the descent of ^Dispond 


The prom- 
ises of for- 
and accept- 
ance to life 
by faith in 

Pliable got 
home, and is 
visited of his 

His enter- 
tainment by 
them at his 


whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin 
doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough 
of Dispond; for still as the sinner is awakened about his 
lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears and 
doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of 
them get together, and settle in this place: And this is 
the reason of the badness of this ground. 

It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should 
remain so bad. His labourers also have, by the direction 
of His Majesties Surveyors, been for above these sixteen 
hundred years imployed about this patch of ground, if 
perhaps it might have been mended: yea, and to my 
knowledge, said he, here hath been swallowed up at least 
twenty thousand cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome 
instructions, that have at all seasons been brought from 
all places of the King's dominions (and they that can 
tell say they are the best materials to make good ground 
of the place), if so be it might have been mended, but 
it is the Slough of Dispond still, and so will be when 
they have done what they can. 

True, there are by the direction of the Lawgiver, certain 
good and substantial steps, placed even through the very 
midst of this Slough; but at such time as this place doth 
much spue out its fiith, as it doth against change of 
weather, these steps are hardly seen; or if they be, men 
through the dizziness of their heads, step besides; and 
then they are bemired to purpose, notwithstanding the 
steps be there; but the ground is good when they are 
once got in at the Gate. 

Now I saw in my Dream, that by this time Pliable was 
got home to his house again. So his Neighbors came 
to visit him: and some of them called him wise man 
for coming back, and some called him fool for hazarding 
himself with Christian: others again did mock at his 
cowardliness; saying, Surely since you began to venture, 
I would not have been so base to have given out for a 
few difficulties. So Pliable sat sneaking among them. But 


at last he got more confidence, and then they all turned 
their tales, and began to deride poor Christian behind 
his back. And thus much concerning Pliable. 

Now as Christian was walking solitary by himself, he 
espied one afar off come crossing over the field to meet 
him; and their hap was to meet just as they were crossing 
the way of each other. The gentleman's name that met 
him was Mr Worldly Wiseman: he dwelt in the Town Mr Worldly 
of Carnal Policy, a very great Town, and also hard by meets with 
from whence Christian came. This man then meeting Christian 
with Christian, and having some inkling of him, — for 
Christian s setting forth from the City of Destruction 
was much noised abroad, not only in the Town where 
he dwelt, but also it began to be the town-talk in some 
other places, — Master Worldly Wiseman therefore, hav- Talk *«'*«' 
ing some guess of him, by beholding his laborious going, wiseman 
by observing his sighs and groans, and the like, began "J^. . 
thus to enter into some talk with Christian. 

World. How now, good fellow, whither away after 
this burdened manner ? 

Chr. A burdened manner indeed, as ever I think poor 
creature had. And whereas you ask me, Whither away? 
I tell you. Sir, I am going to yonder Wicket-gate before 
me; for there, as I am informed, I shall be put into a way 
to be rid of my heavy Burden. 

World. Hast thou a Wife and Children ? 

Chr. Yes, but I am so laden with this Burden, that I 
cannot take that pleasure in them as formerly; methinks 
I am as if I had none. 

World. Wilt thou hearken to me if I give thee counsel ? 

Chr. If it be good, I will; for I stand in need of good 

World. I would advise thee then, that thou with all Mr Worldly 
speed get thyself rid of thy Burden; for thou wilt never counsel to 
be settled in thy mind till then; nor canst thou enjoy the christian 
benefits of the blessing which God hath bestowed upon 
thee till then. 


Mr Worldly 





The frame 
of the heart 
of a young 

does not 
like that 
men should 
be serious 
in reading 
the Bible 


Chr. That is that which I seek for, even to be rid of 
this heavy Burden; but get it off myself, I cannot; nor 
is there any man in our country that can take it off my 
shoulders; therefore am I going this way, as I told you, 
that I may be rid of my Burden. 

World. Who bid thee go this way to be rid of thy 
Burden ? 

Chr. A man that appeared to me to be a very great and 
honorable person; his name as I remember is Evangelist. 

World. I beshrew him for his counsel; there is not a 
more dangerous and troublesome way in the world than 
is that unto which he hath directed thee; and that thou 
shalt find, if thou wilt be ruled by his counsel. Thou 
hast met with something (as I perceive) already; for I 
see the dirt of the Slough of Dispond is upon thee; but 
that Slough is the beginning of the sorrows that do 
attend those that go on in that way: Hear me, I am 
older than thou; thou art like to meet with, in the way 
which thou goest, Wearisomeness, Painfulness, Hunger, 
Perils, Nakedness, Sword, Lions, Dragons, Darkness, 
and in a word. Death, and what not! These things are 
certainly true, having been confirmed by many testi- 
monies. And why should a man so carelessly cast away 
himself, by giving heed to a stranger? 

Chr. Why, Sir, this Burden upon my back is more 
terrible to me than are all these things which you have 
mentioned; nay, methinks I care not what I meet with 
in the way, so be I can also meet with deliverance from 
my Burden. 

World. How camest thou by thy Burden at first? 

Chr. By reading this Book in my hand. 

World. I thought so; and it is happened unto thee as 
to other weak men, who meddling with things too high 
for them, do suddenly fall into thy distractions; which 
distractions do not only unman men (as thine I perceive 
has done thee), but they run them upon desperate ven- 
tures, to obtain they know not what. 


Chr. I know what I would obtain; it is ease for my 
heavy burden. 

World. But why wilt thou seek for ease this way, seeing Whether Mr 
so many dangers attend it? Especially, since (hadst thou \vL;man 
but patience to hear me) I could direct thee to the obtain- prefers 
ing of what thou desirest, without the dangers that thou before the 
in this way wilt run thyself into; yea, and the remedy is strait g»te 
at hand. Besides, I will add, that instead of those dangers, 
thou shalt meet with much safety, friendship, and con- 

Chr. Pray Sir, open this secret to me. 

World. Why in yonder Village (the village is named 
Morality) there dwells a Gentleman whose name is 
Legality, a very judicious man, and a man of very good 
name, that has skill to help men off with such burdens 
as thine are from their shoulders: yea, to my knowledge 
he hath done a great deal of good this way; ay, and be- 
sides, he hath skill to cure those that are somewhat crazed 
in their wits with their burdens. To him, as I said, thou 
mayest go, and be helped presently. His house is not 
quite a mile from this place, and if he should not be at 
home himself, he hath a pretty young man to his Son, 
whose name is Civility, that can do it (to speak on) as 
well as the old Gentleman himself; there, I say, thou 
mayest be eased of thy Burden; and if thou art not 
minded to go back to thy former habitation, as indeed 
I would not wish thee, thou mayest send for thy Wife 
and Children to thee to this village, where there are 
houses now stand empty, one of which thou mayest have 
at reasonable rates; Provision is there also cheap and 
good; and that which will make thy life the more happy 
is, to be sure there thou shalt live by honest Neighbors, 
in credit and good fashion. 

Now was Christian somewhat at a stand, but presendy Christian 
he concluded. If this be true which this Gentleman hath woHdly^ 
said, my wisest course is to take his advice; and with Wiseman's 
that he thus farther spoke. *° 


Mount Sinai 

afraid that 
Mount Sinai 
would fall 
on his head 


Mount Sinai, 
and looketh 
upon him 

afresh with 


Chr. Sir, which is my way to this honest man's 

World. Do you see yonder high Hill ? 

Chr. Yes, very well. 

World. By that Hill you must go, and the first house 
you come at is his. 

So Christian turned out of his way to go to Mr Legal- 
ity's house for help; but behold, when he was got now 
hard by the Hill, it seemed so high, and also that side of 
it that was next the wayside, did hang so much over, 
that Christian was afraid to venture further, lest the Hill 
should fall on his head; wherefore there he stood still, 
and he wot not what to do. Also his Burden now seemed 
heavier to him than while he was in his way. There came 
also flashes of fire out of the Hill, that made Christian 
afraid that he should be burned. Here therefore he sweat 
and did quake for fear. 

When Christians unto Carnal Men give ear, 
Out of their way they go, and pay for 't dear; 
For Master Worldly Wiseman can but shew 
A Saint the way to Bondage and to Wo. 

And now he began to be sorry that he had taken Mr 
Worldly Wiseman's counsel. And with that he saw 
Evangelist coming to meet him; at the sight also of whom 
he began to blush for shame. So Evangelist drew nearer 
and nearer; and coming up to him, he looked upon him 
with a severe and dreadful countenance, and thus began 
to reason with Christian. 

Evan. What doest thou here, Christian? said he: at 
which words Christian knew not what to answer; where- 
fore at present he stood speechless before him. Then said 
Evangelist farther. Art not thou the man that I found 
crying without the walls of the City of Destruction? 

Chr. Yes, dear Sir, I am the man. 

Evan. Did not I direct thee the way to the little Wicket- 

Chr. Yes, dear Sir, said Christian. 

pilgrim's progress 25 

Efan, How is it then that thou art so quickly turned 
aside? for thou art now out of the way. 

Chr. I met with a Gentleman so soon as I had got over 
the Slough of Dispond, who persuaded me that I might, 
in the village before me, find a man that could take off 
my Burden. 

Evan. What was he? 

Chr. He looked like a Gentleman, and talked much to 
me, and got me at last to yield; so I came hither: but 
when I beheld this Hill, and how it hangs over the way, 
I suddenly made a stand, lest it should fall on my head. 

Evan. What said that Gentleman to you? 

Chr. Why, he asked me whither I was going; and I 
told him. 

Evan. And what said he then? 

Chr. He asked me if I had a family; and I told him. 
But, said I, I am so loaden with the Burden that is on my 
back, that I cannot take pleasure in them as formerly. 

Evan. And what said he then ? 

Chr. He bid me with speed get rid of my Burden; and 
I told him 'twas ease that I sought. And, said I, I am 
therefore going to yonder Gate, to receive further direc- 
tion how I may get to the place of deliverance. So he 
said that he would shew me a better way, and short, not 
so attended with difHculties as the way, Sir, that you set 
me; which way, said he, will direct you to a Gentleman's 
house that hath skill to take off these Burdens: So I 
believed him, and turned out of that way into this, if 
haply I might be soon eased of my Burden. But when 
I came to this place, and beheld things as they are, I 
stopped for fear (as I said) of danger: but I now know 
not what to do. 

Evan. Then, said Evangelist, stand still a little, that I 
may shew thee the words of God. So he stood trembling. 
Then said Evangelist, See that ye refuse not him that 
speaketh; for if they escaped not who refused him that 
spake on Earth, much more shall not we escape, if we 

26 pilgrim's progress 

turn away from him that speaketh from Heaven. He said 

moreover, Now the just shall live by faith: but if any 

man draws back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him. 

He also did thus apply them. Thou art the man that art 

running into this misery, thou hast begun to reject the 

counsel of the Most High, and to draw back thy foot 

from the way of peace, even almost to the hazarding of 

thy {perdition. 

Evangelist Then Christian fell down at his foot as dead, crying, 

Oirilxb" of ^° " "*'• /"'' ^ '"" ""'/oBf ; At the sight of which, Evan- 

his error geUst caught him by the right hand, saying, All manner 

of sin and blasphemies shall be forgiven unto men; be 

not faithless, but believing. Then did Christian again a 

little revive, and stood up trembling, as at first, before 


Mr Worldly Then Evangelist proceeded, saying. Give more earnest 

dc^ibed by ^^^^ to the things that I shall tell thee of. I will now shew 

Evangelist thee who it was that deluded thee, and who it was also 

to whom he sent thee. The man that met thee is one 

Worldly Wiseman, and rightly is he so called: partly 

because he savoureth only the doctrine of this world, 

Evangelist (therefore he always goes to the Town of Morality to 

the deceit of church); and partly because he loveth that doctrine best, 

Mr Worldly for it saveth him from the Cross. And because he is of 

this carnal temper, therefore he seeketh to prevent my 

ways, though right. Now there are three things in this 

man's counsel that thou must utterly abhor. 

1. His turning thee out of the way. 

2. His labouring to render the Cross odious to thee. 

3. And his setting thy feet in that way that leadeth 
unto the administration of Death. 

First, Thou must abhor his turning thee out of the 
way; yea, and thine own consenting thereto, because this 
is to reject the counsel of God for the sake of the counsel 
of a Worldly Wiseman. The Lord says. Strive to enter 
in at the strait gate, the gate to which I sent thee; for 
strait is the gate that leadeth unto life, and few there be 


that find it. From this little Wicket-gate, and from the 
way thereto, hath this wicked man turned thee, to the 
bringing of thee almost to destruction; hate therefore his 
turning thee out of the way, and abhor thyself for heark- 
ening to him. 

Secondly, Thou must abhor his labouring to render the 
Cross odious unto thee; for thou art to prefer it before 
the treasures of Egypt. Besides, the King of Glory hath 
told thee, that he that will save his life shall lose it: and 
He that comes after him, and hates not his father, and 
mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, 
yea and his own life also, he cannot be my Disciple. I 
say therefore, for a man to labour to persuade thee, that 
that shall be thy death, without which, the Truth hath 
said, thou canst not have eternal life; This doctrine thou 
must abhor. 

Thirdly, Thou must hate his setting of thy feet in the 
way that leadeth to the ministration of death. And for 
this thou must consider to whom he sent thee, and also 
how unable that person was to deliver thee from thy 

He to whom thou was sent for ease, being by name 
Legality, is the Son of the Bond-woman which now is, ^''* '»'"' 
and is in bondage with her children; and is in a mystery 
this Mount Sinai, which thou hast feared will fall on thy 
head. Now if she with her children are in bondage, how 
canst thou expect by them to be made free ? This Legality 
therefore is not able to set thee free from thy Burden. 
No man was as yet ever rid of his Burden by him; no, 
nor ever is like to be: ye cannot be justified by the Works 
of the Law; for by the deeds of the Law no man living 
can be rid of his Burden: therefore, Mr Worldly Wise- 
man is an alien, and Mr Legality a cheat ; and for his son 
Civility, notwithstanding his simpering looks, he is but 
a hypocrite and cannot help thee. BeLeve me, there is 
nothing in all this noise, that thou hast heard of this sot- 
tish man, but a design to beguile thee of thy Salvation, 


inquires if 
he may yet 
be happy 





by turning thee from the way in which I had set thee. 
After this Evangelist called aloud to the Heavens for 
confirmation of what he had said; and with that there 
came words and fire out of the Mountain under which 
poor Christian stood, that made the hair of his flesh 
stand. The words were thus pronounced, As many as are 
the wor\s of the Law are under the curse; for it is written, 
Cursed is every one that continueth not in all things 
which are written in the Boof(^ of the Law to do them. 

Now Christian looked for nothing but death, and be- 
gan to cry out lamentably, even cursing the time in which 
he met with Mr Worldly Wiseman, still calling himself 
a thousand fools for hearkening to his counsel: he also 
was greatly ashamed to think that this Gentleman's argu- 
ments, flowing only from the flesh, should have that 
prevalency with him as to cause him to forsake the right 
way. This done, he applied himself again to Evangelist 
in words and sense as follows. 

Chr. Sir, what think you ? Is there hopes ? May I now 
go back and go up to the Wicket -gate? Shall I not be 
abandoned for this, and sent back from thence ashamed? 
I am sorry I have hearkened to this man's counsel: But 
may my sin be forgiven? 

Evan. Then said Evangelist to him, Thy sin is very 
great, for by it thou hast committed two evils: thou hast 
forsaken the way that is good, to tread in forbidden paths; 
yet will the man at the Gate receive thee, for he has good- 
will for men; only, said he, take heed that thou turn not 
aside again, lest thou perish from the way, when his 
wrath is kindled but a little. Then did Christian address 
himself to go back; and Evangelist, after he had kissed 
him, gave him one smile, and bid him God speed. So 
he went on with haste, neither spake he to any man by 
the way; nor if any man asked him, would he vouchsafe 
them an answer. He went like one that was all the while 
treading on forbidden ground, and could by no means 
think himself safe, till again he was got into the way 


which he left to follow Mr Worldly Wiseman's counsel. 
So in process of time Christian got up to the Gate. Now 
over the Gate there was written, Knocl^ and it shall be 
opened unto you. 

He that will enter in must first without 

Stand knocking at the Gate, nor need he doubt 

That is a knocker but to enter in, 

For God can love him, and forgive his sin. 

He knocked therefore more than once or twice, saying. 

May I now enter here? Will he within 
Open to sorry me, though I have been 
An undeserving Rebel? Then shall I 
Not fail to sing his lasting praise on high. 

At last there came a grave person to the gate named 
Good-will, who asked Who was there? and whence he 
came? and what he would have? 

Chr. Here is a poor burdened sinner. I come from the 
City of Destruction, but am going to Mount Zion, that 
I may be delivered from the wrath to come. I would The gate 
therefore, Sir, since I am informed that by this Gate is opened to 
the way thither, know if you are willing to let me in. broken- 

Good-will. I am willing with all my heart, said he; skneri 
and with that he opened the Gate. 

So when Christian was stepping in, the other gave 
him a pull. Then said Christian, What means that ? The 
other told him, A little distance from this Gate, there is Satan 
erected a strong Castle, of which Beelzebub is the Cap- th^'that 
tain; from thence both he and they that are with him enter the 
shoot arrows at those that come up to this Gate, if haply """ ^"' 
they may die before they can enter in. Then said Chris- Christian 
tian, I rejoice and tremble. So when he was got in, the ^",'5 with joy 
man of the Gate asked him who directed him thither? »"<! 'rem- 

Chr. Evangelist bid me come hither and knock (as I '"^ 
did); and he said that you. Sir, would tell me what I Talk 

~..,i. J„ between 

must do. Good-will 

Good-will. An open door is set before thee, and no and 

man can shut it. 



A man may 
have com- 
pany when 
he sets out 
for heaven, 
and yet go 
thither alone 

before the 
man at the 


Chr. Now I begin to reap the benefits of my hazards. 

Good-will. But how is it that you came alone ? 

Chr. Because none of my Neighbors saw their danger, 
as I saw mine. 

Good-will. Did any of them know of your coming? 

Chr. Yes, my Wife and Children saw me at the first, 
and called after me to turn again; also some of my Neigh- 
bors stood crying and calling after me to return; but I 
put my fingers in my ears, and so came on my way. 

Good-will. But did none of them follow you, to per- 
suade you to go back ? 

Chr. Yes, both Obstinate and Pliable; but when they 
saw that they could not prevail. Obstinate went raiUng 
back, but Pliable came with me a little way. 

Good-will. But why did he not come through? 

Chr. We indeed came both together, until we came 
to the Slough of Dispond, into the which we also sud- 
denly fell. And then was my Neighbor Pliable discour- 
aged, and would not adventure further. Wherefore 
getting out again on that side next to his own house, he 
told me I should possess the brave country alone for him; 
so he went his way, and I came mine: he after Obstinate, 
and I to this Gate. 

Good-will. Then said Good-will, Alas, poor man, is the 
coelestial glory of so small esteem with him, that he count- 
eth it not worth running the hazards of a few diflficulties 
to obtain it ? 

Chr. Truly, said Christian, I have said the truth of 
Pliable, and if I should also say all the truth of myself, it 
will appear there is no betterment 'twixt him and myself. 
'Tis true, he went back to his own house, but I also turned 
aside to go in the way of death, being persuaded thereto 
by the carnal arguments of one Mr Worldly Wiseman. 

Good-will. O, did he light upon you? What! he would 
have had you a sought for ease at the hands of Mr Le- 
gality. They are both of them a very cheat: But did you 
take his counsel? 


Chr, Yes, as far as I durst: I went to find out Mr 
Legality, until I thought that the Mountain that stands 
by his house would have fallen upon my head; where- 
fore there I was forced to stop. 

Good-will. That Mountain has been the death of many, 
and will be the death of many more; 'tis well you escaped 
being by it dashed in pieces. 

Chr. Why truly I do not know what had become 
of me there, had not Evangelist happily met me again, 
as I was musing in the midst of my dumps: but 'twas 
God's mercy that he came to me again, for else I had 
never come hither. But now I am come, such a one 
as I am, more fit indeed for death by that Mountain 
than thus to stand talking with my Lord; but O, what 
a favour is this to me, that yet I am admitted entrance 

Good-will. We make no objections against any, not- 
withstanding all that they have done before they come 
hither, they in no wise are cast out; and therefore, good 
Christian, come a little way with me, and I will teach 
thee about the way thou must go. Look before thee; 
dost thou see this narrow way ? THAT is the way thou 
must go; it was cast up by the Patriarchs, Prophets, 
Christ, and his Apostles; and it is as straight as a rule 
can make it : This is the way thou must go. 

Chr. But said Christian, Is there no turnings nor wind- 
ings, by which a Stranger may lose the way? 

Good-will. Yes, there are many ways butt down upon 
this, and they are crooked and wide: But thus thou may- 
est distinguish the right from the wrong, the right only 
being straight and narrow. 

Then I saw in my Dream, that Christian asked him 
further, If he could not help him off with his Burden 
that was upon his back; for as yet he had not got rid 
thereof, nor could he by any means get it off without 

He told him, As to thy Burden, be content to bear it. 





directed yet 
on bis way 

afraid of 
losing his 

weary of his 


There is no 
from the 
guilt and 
burden of 
sin, but by 
the death 
and blood of 

comes to the 
house of the 

He is enter- 


sees a grave 

The fashion 
of the 


until thou comest to the place of Deliverance; for there 
it will fall from thy back itself. 

Then Christian began to gird up his loins, and to ad- 
dress himself to his Journey. So the other told him, That 
by that he was gone some distance from the Gate, he 
would come at the house of the Interpreter, at whose door 
he should knock, and he would shew him excellent 
things. Then Christian took his leave of his Friend, and 
he again bid him God speed. 

Then he went on till he came at the house of the 
Interpreter, where he knocked over and over; at last one 
came to the door, and asked Who was there? 

Chr. Sir, here is a Traveller, who was bid by an ac- 
quaintance of the good man of this house to call here 
for my profit; I would therefore speak with the Master 
of the house. So he called for the Master of the house, 
who after a little time came to Christian, and asked him 
what he would have? 

Chr. Sir, said Christian, I am a man that am come from 
the City of Destruction, and am going to the Mount 
Zion; and I was told by the Man that stands at the Gate 
at the head of this way, that if I called here, you would 
shew me excellent things, such as would be a help to 
me in my Journey. 

Inter. Then said the Interpreter, Come in, I will shew 
thee that which will be profitable to thee. So he com- 
manded his man to light the Candle, and bid Christian 
follow him, so he had him into a private room, and bid 
his man open a door; the which when he had done. 
Christian saw the Picture of a very grave Person hang 
up against the wall; and this was the fashion of it. It 
had eyes lifted up to Heaven, the best of Books in his 
hand, the Law of Truth was written upon his hps, the 
World was behind his back. It stood as if it pleaded with 
men, and a Crown of Gold did hang over his head. 

Chr. Then said Christian, What means this? 

Inter. The Man whose Picture this is, is one of a thou- 

ing of the 


sand; he can beget children, travel in birth with chil- 
dren, and nurse them himself when they are born. And 
whereas thou seest him with his eyes lift up to Heaven, 
the best of Books in his hand, and the Law of Truth 
writ on his lips, it is to shew thee that his work is to The mean- 
know and unfold dark things to sinners; even as also 
thou seest him stand as if he pleaded with men; and 
whereas thou seest the World as cast behind him, and 
that a Crown hangs over his head, that is to shew thee 
that slighting and despising the things that are present, 
for the love that he hath to his Master's service, he is 
sure in the world that comes next to have Glory for his 
reward. Now, said the Interpreter, I have shewed thee 
this Picture first, because the Man whose Picture this is, why he 
is the only man whom the Lord of the place whither thou ,he picture 
art going, hath authorized to be thy guide in all difficult fi^st 
places thou mayest meet with in the way; wherefore take 
good heed to what I have shewed thee, and bear well in 
thy mind what thou hast seen, lest in thy Journey thou 
meet with some that pretend to lead thee right, but their 
way goes down to death. 

Then he took him by the hand, and led him into a 
very large Parlour that was full of dust, because never 
swept; the which after he had reviewed a little while, the 
Interpreter called for a man to sweep. Now when he 
began to sweep, the dust began so abundantly to fly about, 
that Christian had almost therewith been choaked. Then 
said the Interpreter to a Damsel that stood by, Bring 
hither the Water, and sprinkle the Room; the which 
when she had done, it was swept and cleansed with 
Chr. Then said Christian, What means this.' 
Inter. The Interpreter answered. This parlour is the 
heart of a man that was never sanctified by the sweet 
Grace of the Gospel: the dust is his Original Sin and in- 
ward Corruptions, that have defiled the whole man. He 
that began to sweep at first, is the Law; but she that 


brought water, and did sprinkle it, is the Gosf)el. Now, 
whereas thou sawest that so soon as the first began to 
sweep, the dust did so fly about that the Room by him 
could not be cleansed, but that thou wast almost choaked 
therewith; this is to shew thee, that the Law, instead 
of cleansing the heart (by its working) from sin, doth re- 
vive, put strength into, and increase it in the soul, even 
as it doth discover and forbid it, for it doth not give 
power to subdue. 

Again, as thou sawest the Damsel sprinkle the room 

with Water, upon which it was cleansed with pleasure; 

this is to shew thee, that when the Gospel comes in the 

sweet and precious influences thereof to the heart, then 

I say, even as thou sawest the Damsel lay the dust by 

sprinkling the floor with Water, so is sin vanquished 

and subdued, and the soul made clean, through the faith 

of it, and consequently fit for the King of Glory to 


He showed I saw moreover in my Dream, that the Interpreter took 

and Patience ^'"^ ^y ^^^ hand, and had him into a little room, where 

sat two little Children, each one in his chair. The name 

of the eldest was Passion, and the name of the other 

Patience. Passion seemed to be much discontent; but 

Passion will Patience was very quiet. Then Christian asked, What 

„Q^ is the reason of the discontent of Passion? The Inter- 

Patience is pretcr answered. The Governor of them would have 

or wai g j^^j^ ^j^y £^^ j^j^ jj^^j things till the beginning of the 

next year; but he will have all now; but Patience is 

willing to wait. 

Passion has Then I saw that one came to Passion, and brought him 

a bag of treasure, and poured it down at his feet, the 

which he took up and rejoiced therein; and withal, 

laughed Patience to scorn. But I beheld but a while, and 

And he had lavished all away, and had nothing left him but 

quickly n 

lavishes all *^^g*- 

away Chr. Then said Christian to the Interpreter, Expound 

this matter more fully to me. 


Inter. So he said, These two Lads are figures: Passion, The matter 
of the men of this world; and Patience, of the men of 
that which is to come; for as here thou seest, Passion will 
have all now this year, that is to say, in this world; so 
are the men of this world: they must have all their good 
things now, they cannot stay till next year, that is, until 
the next world, for their portion of good. That proverb, The worldly 
A Bird in the Hand is worth two in the Bush, is of more bird in the 
authority with them than are all the Divine testimonies hand 
of the good of the world to come. But as thou sawest 
that he had quickly lavished all away, and had presently 
left him nothing but Rags; so will it be with all such men 
at the end of this world. 

Chr. Then said Christian, Now I see that Patience has Patience 
the best wisdom, and that upon many accounts, i. Be- wisdom 
cause he stays for the best things. 2. And also because he 
will have the Glory of his, when the other has nothing 
but Rags. 

Inter. Nay, you may add another, to wit, the glory of Things that 
the next world will never wear out; but these are sud- must give 
denly gone. Therefore Passion had not so much reason ?'»<:«; *>"' 
to laugh at Patience, because he had his good things ^^^ i^j, „e 
first, as Patience will have to laugh at Passion, because he lasting 
had his best things last; for first must give place to 
last, because last must have his time to come: but last 
gives place to nothing; for there is not another to succeed. 
He therefore that hath his portion first, must needs have 
a time to spend it; but he that hath his portion last, must 
have it lastingly; therefore it is said of Dives, In thy life- P}"^}^ 
time thou receivedst thy good things, and likewise La- things first 
zarus evil things; but now he is comforted, and thou art 

Chr. Then I perceive 'tis not best to covet things that 
are now, but to wait for things to come. 

Inter. You say truth: For the things which are seen are The first 
Temporal; but the things that are not seen are Eternal. i,u'"^'poral 
But though this be so, yet since things present and our 

36 pilgrim's progress 

fleshly appetite are such near neighbors one to another; 
and, again, because things to come and carnal sense are 
such strangers one to another; therefore it is that the 
first of these so suddenly fell into amity, and that distance 
is so continued between the second. 

Then I saw in my Dream that the Interpreter took 
Christian by the hand, and led him into a place where 
was a Fire burning against a wall, and one standing by 
it, always casting much Water upon it, to quench it; yet 
did the Fire burn higher and hotter. 

Then said Christian, What means this? 

The Interpreter answered, This Fire is the work of 
Grace that is wrought in the heart; he that casts Water 
upon it, to extinguish and put it out, is the Devil; but in 
that thou seest the Fire notwithstanding burn higher and 
hotter, thou shalt also see the reason of that. So he had 
him about to the backside of the wall, where he saw a 
man with a Vessel of Oil in his hand, of the which he 
did also continually cast (but secretly) into the Fire. 

Then said Christian, What means this? 

The Interpreter answered. This is Christ, wno continu- 
ally, with the Oil of his Grace, maintains the work al- 
ready begun in the heart: by the means of which not- 
withstanding what the Devil can do, the souls of his peo- 
ple prove gracious still. And in that thou sawest that 
the man stood behind the wall to maintain the Fire, that 
is to teach thee that it is hard for the tempted to see how 
this work of Grace is maintained in the soul. 

I saw also that the Interpreter took him again by the 
hand, and led him into a pleasant place, where was 
builded a stately Palace, beautiful to behold; at the sight 
of which Christian was greatly delighted: He saw also 
upon the top thereof, certain persons walking, who were 
cloathed all in gold. 

Then said Christian, May we go in thither? 

Then the Interpreter took him, and led him up toward 
the door of the Palace; and behold, at the door stood a 


great company of men, as desirous to go in, but durst not. 

There also sat a man at a little distance from the door, 

at a table-side, with a Book and his Inkhorn before him, 

to take the name of him that should enter therein; He 

saw also, that in the door-way stood many men in armour 

to keep it, being resolved to do the men that would enter 

what hurt and mischief they could. Now was Christian 

somewhat in a maze. At last, when every man started 

back for fear of the armed men. Christian saw a man of "^^ valiant 

a very stout countenance come up to the man that sat 

there to write, saying. Set down my name, Sir: the which 
when he had done, he saw the man draw his Sword, and 
put an Helmet upon his head, and rush toward the door 
upon the armed men, who laid upon him with deadly 
force; but the man, not at all discouraged, fell to cutting 
and hacking most fiercely. So after he had received and 
given many wounds to those that attempted to keep him 
out, he cut his way through them all, and pressed for- 
ward into the Palace, at which there was a pleasant 
voice heard from those that were within, even of those 
that walked upon the top of the Palace, saying. 

Come in, Come in; 

Eternal Glory thou shalt win. 

So he went in, and was cloathed with such garments as 
they. Then Christian smiled, and said, I think verily I 
know the meaning of this. 

Now, said Christian, let me go hence. Nay, stay, said ^P^^ j.^ 
the Interpreter, till I have shewed thee a little more, and 
after that thou shalt go on thy way. So he took him by 
the hand again, and led him into a very dark room, 
where there sat a man in an Iron Cage. 

Now the Man, to look on, seemed very sad; he sat 
with his eyes looking down to the ground, his hands 
folded together; and he sighed as if he would break his 
heart. Then said Christian, What means this? At which 
the Interpreter bid him talk with the man. 

an iron cage 

38 pilgrim's progress 

Then said Christian to the Man, What art thou? The 
Man answered, / am what I was not once. 

Chr. What wast thou once? 

Man. The Man said, I was once a fair and flourishing 
Professor, both in mine own eyes, and also in the eyes 
of others; I once was, as I thought, fair for the Coelestial 
City, and had then even joy at the thoughts that I should 
get thither. 

Chr. Well, but what art thou now? 

Man. I am now a man of Despair, and am shut up 
in it, as in this Iron Cage. I cannot get out; O now I 

Chr. But how camest thou in this condition? 

Man. I left off to watch and be sober; I laid the reins 
upon the neck of my lusts; I sinned against the light of 
the Word and the goodness of God; I have grieved the 
Spirit, and he is gone; I tempted the Devil, and he is 
come to me; I have provoked God to anger, and he has 
left me; I have so hardened my heart, that I cannot 

Then said Christian to the Interpreter, But are there 
no hopes for such a man as this? Ask him, said the 

Chr. Then said the Christian, Is there no hope, but 
you must be kept in the Iron Cage of Despair? 

Man. No, none at all. 

Chr. Why? the Son of the Blessed is very pitiful. 

Man. I have crucified him to myself afresh, I have 
despised his Person, I have despised his Righteousness, 
I have counted his Blood an unholy thing; I have done 
despite to the Spirit of Grace: Therefore I have shut 
myself out of all the Promises, and there now remains 
to me nothing but threatnings, dreadful threatnings, fear- 
ful threatnings of certain Judgment and fiery Indigna- 
tion, which shall devour me as an Adversary. 

Chr. For what did you bring yourself into this condi- 

pilgrim's progress 39 

Man. For the Lusts, Pleasures, and Profits of this 
World; in the enjoyment of which I did then promise 
myself much delight; but now every one of those things 
also bite me, and gnaw me like a burning worm. 

Chr. But canst thou not now repent and turn? 

Man. God hath denied me repentance: his Word gives 
me no encouragement to believe; yea, himself hath shut 
me up in this Iron Cage; nor can all the men in the world 
let me out. O Eternity! Eternity! how shall I grapple 
with the misery that I must meet with in Eternity 1 

Inter. Then said the Interpreter to Christian, Let this 
man's misery be remembred by thee, and be an everlast- 
ing caution to thee. 

Chr. Well, said Christian, this is fearful; God help me 
to watch and be sober, and to pray that I may shun the 
cause of this man's misery. Sir, is it not time for me to 
go on my way now ? 

Inter. Tarry till I shall shew thee one thing more, and 
then thou shalt go thy way. 

So he toolc Christian by the hand again, and led him 
into a Chamber, where there was one rising out of bed; 
and as he put on his raiment, he shook and trembled. 
Then said Christian, Why doth this man thus tremble? 
The Interpreter then bid him tell to Christian the reason 
of his so doing. So he began and said. This night, as I 
was in my sleep, I dreamed, and behold the Heavens 
grew exceeding black; also it thundred and hghtned in 
most fearful wise, that it put me into an agony; so I 
looked up in my Dream, and saw the Clouds rack at 
an unusual rate, upon which I heard a great sound of a 
Trumpet, and saw also a Man sit upon a Cloud, attended 
with the thousands of Heaven; they were all in flaming 
fire, also the Heavens were in a burning flame. I heard 
then a Voice saying, Arise ye dead, and come to Judg- 
ment; and with that the Rocks rent, the Graves opened, 
and the Dead that were therein came forth. Some of 
them were exceeding glad, and looked upward; and 


some sought to hide themselves under the Mountains* 
Then I saw the Man that sat upon the Cloud open the 
Book, and bid the World draw near. Yet there was, by 
reason of a fierce flame which issued out and came from 
before him, a convenient distance betwixt him and them, 
as betwixt the Judge and the Prisoners at the bar. I 
heard it also proclaimed to them that attended on the 
Man that sat on the Cloud, Gather together the Tares, 
the Cha§, and Stubble, and cast them into the burning 
La\e. And with that, the bottomless pit opened, just 
whereabout I stood; out of the mouth of which there 
came in an abundant manner, smoke and coals of fire, 
with hideous noises. It was also said to the same persons. 
Gather my Wheat into the Garner. And with that I saw 
many catch'd up and carried away into the Clouds, but 
I was left behind. I also sought to hide myself, but I 
could not, for the Man that sat upon the Cloud still kept 
his eye upxjn me: my sins also came into my mind; and 
my Conscience did accuse me on every side. Upon this 
I awaked from my sleep. 

Chr. But what was it that made you so afraid of this 
sight ? 

Man. Why, I thought that the day of Judgment was 
come, and that I was not ready for it: but this frighted 
me most, that the Angels gathered up several, and left me 
behind; also the pit of Hell opened her mouth just 
where I stood: my Conscience too afflicted me; and as I 
thought, the Judge had always his eye upon me, shewing 
indignation in his countenance. 

Then said the Interpreter to Christian, Hast thou con- 
sidered ail these things? 

Chr. Yes, and they put me in hope and fear. 

Inter. Well, keep all things so in thy mind that they 
may be as a Goad in thy sides, to prick thee forward in 
the way thou must go. Then Christian began to gird up 
his loins, and address himself to his Journey. Then said 
the Interpreter, The Comforter be always with thee, good 


Christian, to guide thee in the way that leads to the 
City. So Christian went on his way saying. 

Here I have seen things rare and profitable; 
Things pleasant, dreadful, things to make me stable 
In what I have begun to take in hand; 
Then let me think on them, and understand 
Wherefore they shew'd me was, and let me be 
Thankful, O good Interpreter, to thee. 

Now I saw in my Dream, that the highway up which 
Christian was to go, was fenced on either side with a 
Wall, and that Wall is called Salvation. Up this 
way therefore did burdened Christian run, but not 
without great difficulty, because of the load on his 

He ran thus till he came at a place somewhat ascend- 
ing, and upon that place stood a Cross, and a little below 
in the bottom, a Sepulchre. So I saw in my Dream, that 
just as Christian came up with the Cross, his Burden 
loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, 
and began to tumble, and so continued to do, till it came 
to the mouth of the Sepulchre, where it fell in, and I saw 
it no more. 

Then was Christian glad and lightsome, and said with when God 

, Till- f 7 • I releases us of 

a merry heart. He hath given me rest by his sorrow, and „y^, guilt and 

li]e by his death. Then he stood still awhile to look and burden we 
, , . . . I ■ L L - L 3''^ 3' those 

wonder; tor it was very surpnsmg to nim, that the sight ,i,at leap for 

of the Cross should thus ease him of his Burden. He )oy 

looked therefore, and looked again, even till the springs 

that were in his head sent the waters down his cheeks. 

Now as he stood looking and weeping, behold three 

Shining Ones came to him and saluted him with Peace 

be to thee; so the first said to him. Thy sins be forgiven: 

the second stript him of his Rags, and clothed him with 

Change of Raiment; the third also set a mark in his 

forehead, and gave him a Roll with a Seal upon it, which 

he bid him look on as he ran, and that he should give it 

in at the Coelestial Gate. So they went their way. 

A Christian 
can sing 
alone, when 
God doth 
give him the 
)oy of his 

Sloth, and 

There is no 
will do, if 
God openeth 
not the eyes 

talked with 


Who's this? the Pilgrim. How! 'tis very true. 
Old things are past away, all's become new. 
Strange! he's another man, upon my word. 
They be fine Feathers that make a fine Bird. 

Then Christian gave three leaps for joy, and went on 


Thus far did I come laden with my sin; 
Nor could aught ease the grief that I was in 
Till I came hither: What a place is this! 
Must here be the beginning of my bliss? 
Must here the Burden fall from off my back? 
Must here the strings that bound it to me crack ? 
Blest Cross! blest Sepulchre! blest rather be 
The Man that there was put to shame for me. 

I saw then in my Dream that he went on thus, even 
until he came at a bottom, where he saw, a little out of 
the way, three men fast asleep, with fetters upon their 
heels. The name of the one was Simple, another Sloth, 
and the third Presumption. 

Christian then seeing them lie in this case, went to 
them, if peradventure he might awake them, and cried. 
You are like them that sleep on the top of a mast, for 
the Dead Sea is under you, a gulf that hath no bottom. 
Awake therefore and come away; be willing also, and I 
will help you off with your Irons. He also told them, 
If he that goeth about like a roaring lion comes by, you 
will certainly become a prey to his teeth. With that they 
looked upon him, and began to reply in his sort: Simple 
said, / see no danger; Sloth said. Yet a little more sleep: 
and Presumption said, Every Fat' must stand upon his 
oiun bottom. And so they lay down to sleep again and 
Christian went on his way. 

Yet was he troubled to think that men in that danger 
should so little esteem the kindness of him that so freely 
offered to help them, both by awakening of them, coun- 
selling of them, and proffering to help them off with 
their Irons. And as he was troubled thereabout he 

' /.ft. Vat or tub. 


espied two men come tumbling over the Wall, on the 
left hand of the narrow way; and they made up apace 
to him. The name of the one was Formalist, and the 
name of the other Hypocrisy. So, as I said, they drew 
up unto him, who thus entered with them into dis- 

Chr. Gentlemen, Whence came you, and whither do 
you go? 

Form, and Hyp. We were born in the land of Vain- 
glory, and are going for praise to Mount Sion. 

Chr. Why came you not in at the Gate which standeth 
at the beginning of the Way? Know you not that it is 
written. That he that comet h not in by the Door, but 
climbeth up some other way, the same is a Thief and a 

Form, and Hyp. They said, That to go to the Gate for 
entrance was by all their countrymen counted too far 
about; and that therefore their usual way was to make 
a short cut of it, and to climb over the wall, as they had 

Chr. But will it not be counted a Trespass against the 
Lord of the City whither we are bound, thus to violate 
his revealed will? 

Form, and Hyp. They told him. That as for that, he They that 
needed not to trouble his head thereabout; for what they ^^ ^^y 
did they had custom for; and could produce, if need but not by 
were. Testimony that would witness it for more than a ,i,ink ,hat 
thousand years. '•'ey "^^n say 

Chr. But, said Christian, will your practice stand a tnTindica- 
Trial at Law? "«" °i 'heir 

Form, and Hyp. They told him. That custom, it being 
of so long a standing as above a thousand years, would 
doubtless now be admitted as a thing legal by an impar- 
tial Judge; and besides, said they, if we get into the way, 
what's matter which way we get in? if we are in, 
we are in; thou art but in the way, who, as we perceive, 
came in at the Gate; and we are also in the way, that 


came tumbling over the wall; wherein now is thy condi- 
tion better than ours? 

Chr. I walk by the Rule of my Master; you walk by 
the rude working of your fancies. You are counted 
thieves already, by the Lord of the way; therefore I doubt 
you will not be found true men at the end of the way. 
You come in by yourselves, without his direction; and 
shall go out by yourselves, without his mercy. 

To this they made him but little answer; only they bid 

him look to himself. Then I saw that they went on 

every man in his way, without much conference one with 

another; save that these two men told Christian, that as 

to Laws and Ordinances, they doubted not but they 

should as conscientiously do them as he; therefore, said 

they, we see not wherein thou differest from us but by 

the Coat that is on thy back, which was, as we trow, 

given thee by some of thy Neighbors, to hide the shame 

of thy nakedness. 

Christian Chr. By Laws and Ordinances you will not be saved, 

l^rirs*coat' since you came not in by the door. And as for this Coat 

on his back, that is on my back, it was given me by the Lord of the 

fortcd* there- P^^^^c whither I go; and that, as you say, to cover my 

with; he is nakedness with. And I take it as a token of his kindness 

auT w?th his '° '"^' ^°'^ ^ ^"^^ nothing but rags before. And besides, 

mark and thus I comfort myself as I go: Surely think I, when I 

" ™ come to the gate of the City, the Lord thereof will know 

me for good, since I have this Coat on my back; a Coat 

that he gave me freely in the day that he stript me of my 

rags. I have moreover a Mark in my forehead, of which 

perhaps you have taken no notice, which one of my 

Lord's most intimate associates fixed there in the day 

that my Burden fell off my shoulders. I will tell you 

moreover, that I had then given me a Roll sealed, to 

comfort me by reading as I go in the way; I was also 

bid to give it in at the Ccelestial Gate, in token of my 

certain going in after it; all which things I doubt you 



want, and want them because you came not in at the 

To these things they gave him no answer; only they 9''""',^ 
looked upon each other and laughed. Then I saw that himself 
they went on all, save that Christian kept before, who 
had no more talk but with himself, and that sometimes 
sighingly, and sometimes comfortably; also he would be 
often reading in the Roll that one of the Shining Ones 
gave him, by which he was refreshed. 

I beheld then, that they all went on till they came to He comes to 
the foot of the Hill Difficulty, at the bottom of which Difficulty 
was a Spring. There was also in the same place two 
other ways besides that which came straight from the 
Gate; one turned to the left hand and the other to the 
right, at the bottom of the Hill; but the narrow way lay 
right up the Hill, and the name of the going up the side 
of the Hill is called Difficulty. Christian now went to 
the Spring, and drank thereof to refresh himself, and 
then began to go up the Hill, saying, 

The Hill, tho* high, I covet to ascend. 

The difficulty will not me offend; 

For I perceive the way to life lies here: 

Come, pluck up, Heart, let's neither faint nor fear; 

Better, the' difficult, the right way to go, 

Than wrong, though easy, where the end is wo. 

The other two also came to the foot of the Hill; but The danger 
when they saw that the Hill was steep and high, and "u "of'^ 
that there was two other ways to go; and supposing also way 
that these two ways might meet again with that up which 
Christian went, on the other side of the Hill; therefore 
they were resolved to go in those ways. Now the name 
of one of those ways was Danger, and the name of the 
other Destruction. So the one took the way which is 
called Danger, which led him into a great Wood; and 
the other took directly up the way to Destruction , which 


A word of 

He that 
sleeps is a 

meets with 
Mistrust and 


led him into a wide field, full of dark Mountains, 
where he stumbled and fell, and rose no more. 

Shall they who wrong begin yet righdy end? 
Shall they at all have Safety for their friend? 
No, no; in headstrong manner they set out, 
And headlong will they fall at last no doubt. 

I looked then after Christian to see him go up the 
Hill, where I perceived he fell from running to going, 
and from going to clambering upon his hands and his 
knees, because of the steepness of the place. Now about 
the mid-way to the top of the Hill was a pleasant Arbor, 
made by the Lord of the Hill for the refreshing of weary 
travellers; thither therefore Christian got, where also he 
sat down to rest him. Then he pulled his Roll out of his 
bosom, and read therein to his comfort; he also now 
began afresh to take a review of the Coat or Garment 
that was given him as he stood by the Cross. Thus pleas- 
ing himself awhile, he at last fell into a slumber, and 
thence into a fast sleep, which detained him in that place 
until it was almost night; and in his sleep his Roll fell out 
of his hand. Now as he was sleeping, there came one to 
him and awaked him, saying. Go to the Ant, thou slug- 
gard; consider her ways, and be wise. And with that 
Christian suddenly started up, and sped on his way, and 
went apace till he came to the top of the Hill. 

Now when he was got up to the top of the Hill, there 
came two men running against him amain; the name of 
the one was Timorous, and the other, Mistrust; to whom 
Christian said. Sirs, what's the matter you run the wrong 
way.? Timorous answered, that they were going to the 
City of Zion, and had got up that difficult place; but, 
said he, the further we go, the more danger we meet 
with; wherefore we turned, and are going back again. 

Yes, said Mistrust, for just before us lie a couple of 
Lions in the way, (whether sleeping or waking we know 
not) and we could not think, if we came within reach, 
but they would presently pull us ui pieces. 


Chr. Then said Christian, You make me afraid, but Christian 
whither shall I fly to be safe? If I go back to mine own £j„ 
country, that is prepared for Fire and Brimstone, and I 
shall certainly perish there. If I can get to the Ccelestial 
City, I am sure to be in safety there. I must venture : To 
go back is nothing but death; to go forward is fear of 
death, and life everlasting beyond it. I will yet go for- 
ward. So Mistrust and Timorous ran down the Hill, and 
Christian went on his way. But thinking again of what 
he heard from the men, he felt in his bosom for his Roll, 
that he might read therein and be comforted; but he felt. Christian 
and found it not. Then was Christian in great distress, ^^w therein 
and knew not what to do; for he wanted that which used •'«' used to 
to relieve him, and that which should have been his pass i^^ 
into the Ccelestial City. Here therefore he began to be 
much perplexed, and knew not what to do. At last he ^^ j^ P*"^' 
bethought himself that he had slept in the Arbor that is his roll 
on the side of the Hill; and falling down ujxin his knees 
he asked God's forgiveness for that his foolish fact^ and 
then went back to look for his Roll. But all the way 
he went back, who can sufficiently set forth the sorrow of 
Christian's heart? Sometimes he sighed, sometimes he 
wept, and oftentimes he chid himself for being so fool- 
ish to fall asleep in that place, which was erected only for 
a Uttle refreshment for his weariness. Thus therefore he 
went back, carefully looking on this side and on that, 
all the way as he went, if happily he might find his Roll, 
that had been his comfort so many times in his Journey. 
He went thus till he came again within sight of the 
Arbor where he sat and slept; but that sight renewed 
his sorrow the more, by bringing again, even afresh, his 
evil of sleeping into his mind. Thus therefore he now 
went on bewailing his sinful sleep, saying, O wretched Christian 
man that I am, that I should sleep in the daytime! that foolish 
I should sleep in the midst of difficulty! that I should so sleeping 
indulge the flesh, as to use that rest for ease to my flesh, 

48 pilgrim's prcxiress 

which the Lord of the Hill hath erected only for the 
relief of the spirits of Pilgrims? How many steps have 
I took in vain! (Thus it happened to Israel for their sin, 
ihey were sent back again by the way of the Red Sea), 
and I am made to tread those steps with sorrow, which I 
might have trod with delight, had it not been for this 
sinful sleep. How far might I have been on my way by 
this time! I am made to tread those steps thrice over, 
which I needed not to have trod but once; yea now also 
I am like to be benighted, for the day is almost spent. 

that I had not slept! 

Christian Now by this time he was come to the Arbor again, 

roll where where for a while he sat down and wept; but at last, as 
he lost it Christian would have it, looking sorrowfully down under 
the settle, there he espied his Roll; the which he with 
trembling and haste catched up, and put it into his 
bosom. But who can tell how joyful this man was when 
he had gotten his Roll again! for this Roll was the as- 
surance of his life and acceptance at the desired Haven. 
Therefore he laid it up in his bosom, gave thanks to God 
for directing his eye to the place where it lay, and with 
joy and tears betook himself again to his Journey. But 
Oh how nimbly now did he go up the rest of the Hill! 
Yet before he got up, the Sun went down upon Christian; 
and this made him again recall the vanity of his sleeping 
to his remembrance; and thus he again began to condole 
with himself. O thou sinful sleep: how for thy sal^e am 

1 lil{e to be benighted in my Journey! I must tvall^ with- 
out the Sun, darl^ness must cover the path of my feet, 
and I must hear the noise of doleful creatures, because of 
my sinful sleep. Now also he remembered the story that 
Mistrust and Timorous told him of, how they were 
frighted with the sight of the Lions. Then said Christian 
to himself again, These beasts range in the night for 
their prey; and if they should meet with me in the dark, 
how should I shift them ? How should I escape being by 
them torn in pieces? Thus he went on his way. But 

pilgrim's progress 49 

while he was thus bewailing his unhappy miscarriage, he 
lift up his eyes, and behold there was a very stately Pal- 
ace before him, the name of which was Beautiful; and 
it stood just by the High-way side. 

So I saw in my Dream that he made haste and went 
forward, that if possible he might get Lodging there. 
Now before he had gone far, he entered into a very nar- 
row passage, which was about a furlong off of the Por- 
ter's Lodge; and looking very narrowly before him as 
he went, he espied two Lions in the way. Now, thought 
he, I see the dangers that Mistrust and Timorous were 
driven back by. (The Lions were chained, but he saw 
not the chains.) Then he was afraid, and thought also 
himself to go back after them, for he thought nothing 
but death was before him: But the Porter at the lodge, 
whose name is Watchful, perceiving that Christian made 
a halt as if he would go back, cried unto him, saying, 
Is thy strength so small? Fear not the Lions, for they 
are chained, and are placed there for trial of faith where 
it is, and for discovery of those that have none. Keep in 
the midst of the Path, and no hurt shall come unto thee. 

DiEBculty is behind. Fear is before. 
Though he's got on the Hill, the Lions roar; 
A Christian man is never long at ease, 
When one fright's gone, another doth him seize. 

Then I saw that he went on, trembling for fear of the 
Lions, but taking good heed to the directions of the 
Porter; he heard them roar, but they did him no harm. 
Then he dapt his hands, and went on till he came and 
stood before the Gate where the Porter was. Then said 
Christian to the Porter, Sir, what house is this ? and may 
I lodge here to-night ? The Porter answered. This house 
was built by the Lord of the Hill, and he built it for the 
relief and security of Pilgrims. The Porter also asked 
whence he was, and whither he was going? 

Chr. I am come from the City of Destruction, and am 


going to Mount Zion; but because the Sun is now set, I 
desire, if I may, to lodge here to-night. 

For. What is your name? 

Chr. My name is now Christian, but my name at the 
first was Graceless; I came of the race of fapheth, whom 
God will persuade to dwell in the Tents of Shem. 

For. But how doth it happen that you come so late? 
The Sun is set. 

Chr. 1 had been here sooner, but that, wretched man 
that I am! I slept in the Arbor that stands on the Hill- 
side; nay, I had notwithstanding that, been here much 
sooner, but that in my sleep I lost my evidence, and came 
without it to the brow of the Hill; and then feeUng for 
it, and finding it not, I was forced with sorrow of heart 
to go back to the place where 1 had slept my sleep, where 
I found it, and now I am come. 

For. Well, I will call out one of the Virgins of this 
place, who will, if she likes your talk, bring you in to the 
rest of the Family, according to the rules of the house. 
So Watchful the Porter, rang a bell, at the sound of which 
came out at the door of the house, a grave and beautiful 
damsel named Discretion, and asked why she was called. 

The Porter answered. This man is in a Journey from 
the City of Destruction to Mount Zion, but being weary 
and benighted, he asked me if he might lodge here to- 
night; so I told him I would call for thee, who, after 
discourse had with him, mayest do as seemeth thee good, 
even according to the Law of the house. 

Then she asked him whence he was, and whither he 
was going; and he told her. She asked him also, how 
he got into the way; and he told her. Then she asked 
him, what he had seen and met with in the way; and he 
told her. And last she asked his name; so he said. It is 
Christian, and I have so much the more a desire to 
lodge here to-night, because, by what I p)erceive, this 
place was built by the Lord of the Hill, for the relief and 
seciu-ity of Pilgrims. So she smiled, but the water stood 


in her eyes; and after a little pause, she said, I will call 
forth two or three more of the Family. So she ran to the 
door, and called out Prudence, Piety, and Charity, who 
after a little more discourse with him, led him in to the 
Family; and many of them, meeting him at the threshold 
of the house, said. Come in thou blessed of the Lord: 
this house was built by the Lord of the Hill, on purpose 
to entertain such Pilgrims in. Then he bowed his head, 
and followed them into the house. So when he was come 
in and set down, they gave him something to drink, and 
consented together, that until supf)er was ready, some of 
them should have some particular discourse with Chris- 
tian, for the best improvement of time; and they ap- 
pointed Piety, and Prudence, and Charity to discourse 
with him; and thus they began: 

Piety. Come good Christian, since we have been so Piety 
loving to you, to receive you into our house this night, let hlm""'^'** 
us, if perhaps we may better ourselves thereby, talk with 
you of all things that have happened to you in your 

Chr. With a very good will, and I am glad that you 
are so well disposed. 

Piety. What moved you at first to betake yourself to a 
Pilgrim's life? 

Chr. I was driven out of my Native Country, by a How 
dreadful sound that was in mine ears: to wit, that un- was driven 
avoidable destruction did attend me, if I abode in that <>"' of his 

1 1 ¥ own country 

place where 1 was. 

Piety. But how did it happen that you came out of 
your Country this way ? 

Chr. It was as God would have it; for when I was How he got 
under the fears of destruction, I did not know whither {„ ^ion^ ""'^ 
to go; but by chance there came a man, even to me, as 
I was trembling and weeping, whose name is Evangelist, 
and he directed me to the Wicket-gate, which else I 
should never have found, and so set me into the way that 
hath led me directly to this house. 



Piety. But did you not come by the house of the Inter- 
A rehearsal Chr. Yes, and did see such things there, the remem- 
$aw in the brance of which will stick by me as long as I live; spe- 
wiy cially three things: to wit, How Christ, in despite of 

Satan, maintains his work of Grace in the heart; how the 
man had sinned himself quite out of hopes of God's 
mercy; and also the Dream of him that thought in his 
sleep the day of Judgment was come. 

Piety. Why, Did you hear him tell his dream? 

Chr. Yes, and a dreadful one it was. I thought it 
made my heart ake as he was telling of it; but yet I am 
glad I heard it. 

Piety. Was that all that you saw at the house of the 

Chr. No: he took me and had me where he shewed 
me a stately Palace, and how the people were clad in Gold 
that were in it; and how there came a venturous man 
and cut his way through the armed men that stood in 
the door to keep him out, and how he was bid to come 
in, and win eternal Glory. Methought those things did 
ravish my heart; I would have stayed at that good man's 
house a twelve-month, but that I knew I had further 
to go. 

Piety. And what saw you else in the way? 

Chr. Saw! Why, I went but a little further, and I saw 
one, as I thought in my mind, hang bleeding uf)on the 
Tree; and the very sight of him made my Burden fall 
off my back (for I groaned under a very heavy Burden), 
but then it fell down from off me. 'Twas a strange thing 
to me, for I never saw such a thing before; yea, and while 
I stood looking up (for then I could not forbear looking) 
three Shining Ones came to me. One of them testified 
that my sins were forgiven me; another stript me of my 
Rags, and gave me this broidered Coat which you see; 
and the third set the Mark which you see in my fore- 


head, and gave me this sealed Roll: (and with that he 
plucked it out of his bosom.) 

Piety. But you saw more than this, did you not? 

Chr. The things that I have told you were the best; 
yet some other matters I saw, as namely I saw three men. 
Simple, Sloth, and Presumption, lie asleep a little out of 
the way as I came, with Irons upon their heels; but do 
you think I could awake them? I also saw Formalist 
and Hypocrisy come tumbling over the wall, to go, as 
they pretended, to Zion; but they were quickly lost; evea 
as I myself did tell them, but they would not believe. 
But, above all, I found it hard work to get up this Hill, 
and as hard to come by the Lions' mouths; and truly if 
it had not been for the good man, the Porter that stands 
at the Gate, I do not know but that after all I might 
have gone back again; but now I thank God I am here, 
and I thank you for receiving of me. 

Then Prudence thought good to ask him a few ques- Prudence 
tions, and desired his answer to them. j,i^ 

Prud. Do you not think sometimes of the Country 
from whence you came? 

Chr. Yes, but with much shame and detestation: Truly, Christian's 
if I had been mindful of that Country from whence I his^iutive 
came out, I might have had opportunity to have re- country 
turned; but now I desire a better Country, that is, a 

Prud. Do you not yet bear away with you some of the 
things that then you were conversant withal? 

Chr. Yes, but greatly against my will; especially my Christian 
inward and carnal cogitations, with which all my coun- „iih carnal 
trymen, as well as myself, were delighted; but now all cogitationj 
those things are my grief; and might I but chuse mine Christian's 
own things, I would chuse never to think of those things 
more; but when I would be doing of that which is best, 
that which is worst is with me. 

Prud, Do you not find sometimes, as if those things 


golden hours 


gets power 
against his 

would be at 
Mount Zion 




love to his 
wiEe and 


were vanquished, which at other times are your per- 
plexity ? 

Chr. Yes, but that is seldom; but they are to me golden 
hours in which such things hapf)en to me. 

Prud. Can you remember by what means you find 
your annoyances at times, as if they were vanquished ? 

Chr. Yes, when I think what I saw at the Cross, 
that will do it; and when I look up)on my broidered 
Coat, that will do it; also when I look into the Roll 
that 1 carry in my bosom, that will do it; and when 
my thoughts wax warm about whither I am going, 
that will do it. 

Prud. And what is it that makes you so desirous to go 
to Mount Zion? 

Chr. Why, there I hop>e to sec him alive that did hang 
dead on the Cross; and there I hope to be rid of all those 
things that to this day are in me an annoyance to me; 
there, they say, there is no death; and there I shall dwell 
with such Company as 1 like best. For to tell you truth, 
I love him, because I was by him eased of my Burden, 
and I am weary of my inward sickness; I would fain be 
where I shall die no more, and with the Company that 
shall continually cry. Holy, Holy, Holy. 

Then said Charity to Christian, Have you a family? 
Are you a married man? 

Chr. I have a Wife and four small Children. 

Char. And why did you not bring them along with 

Chr. Then Christian wept, and said, Oh how willingly 
would I have done it, but they were all of them utterly 
averse to my going on Pilgrimage. 

Char. But you should have talked to them, and have 
endeavoured to have shewn them the danger of being 

Chr. So I did, and told them also what God had 
shewed to me of the destruction of our City; but I seemed 
to them as one that mocked, and they believed me not. 


Char. And did you pray to God that he would bless 
your counsel to them? 

Chr. Yes, and that with much affection; for you must 
think that my Wife and poor Children were very dear 
unto me. 

Char. But did you tell them of your own sorrow, and 
fear of destruction? for I suppose that destruction was 
visible enough to you. 

Chr. Yes, over, and over, and over. They might also 
see my fears in my countenance, in my tears, and also in 
my trembhng under the apprehension of the Judgment 
that did hang over our heads; but all was not sufficient 
to prevail with them to come with me. 

Char. But what could they say for themselves, why 
they came not? 

Chr. Why, my Wife was afraid of losing this World, 
and my Children were given to the foolish Delights of 
youth: so what by one thing, and what by another, they 
left me to wander in this manner alone. 

Char. But did you not with your vain life, damp all 
that you by words used by way of persuasion to bring 
them away with you ? 

Chr. Indeed I cannot commend my Hfe; for I am con- 
scious to myself of many failings therein: I know also, 
that a man by his conversation may soon overthrow, what 
by argument or persuasion he doth labour to fasten upon 
others for their good. Yet, this I can say, I was very wary 
of giving them occasion, by any unseemly action, to make 
them averse to going on Pilgrimage. Yea, for this very 
thing they would tell me I was too precise, and that I 
denied myself of things (for their sakes) in which they 
saw no evil. Nay, I think I may say, that if what they 
saw in me did hinder them, it was my great tenderness 
in sinning against God, or of doing any wrong to my 

Char. Indeed Cain hated his Brother, because his own 
works were evil, and his Brother's righteous; and if thy 


fears of 
might be 
read in his 
very counte- 

The cause 
why his wife 
and children 
did not go 
with him 

good con- 
before hii 
wife and 


clear of 
their blood 
if they 

had to his 

Their talk at 

princes of 



Wife and Children have been offended with thee for this, 
they thereby shew themselves to be implacable to good, 
and thou hast delivered thy soul from their blood. 

Now I saw in my Dream, that thus they sat talking 
together until supper was ready. So when they had made 
ready, they sat down to meat. Now the Table was fur- 
nished with fat things, and with Wine that was well re- 
fined: and all their talk at the Table was about the 
LORD of the Hill; as namely, about what HE had done, 
and wherefore HE did what He did, and why HE had 
builded that House: and by what they said, I perceived 
that he had been a great Warrioitr, and had fought with 
and slain him that had the power of Death, but not with- 
out great danger to himself, which made me love him the 

For, as they said, and as I believe (said Christian) he 
did it with the loss of much blood; but that which put 
Glory of Grace into all he did, was, that he did it out of 
pure love to his Country, And besides, there were some 
of them of the household that said they had seen and 
spoke with him since he did die on the Cross; and they 
have attested that they had it from his own lips, that he 
is such a lover of poor Pilgrims, that the like is not to 
be found from the East to the West. 

They moreover gave an instance of what they af- 
firmed, and that was. He had stript himself of his glory, 
that he might do this for the Poor; and that they heard 
him say and affirm, That he would not dwell in the 
Mountain of Zion alone. They said moreover, that he 
had made many Pilgrims Princes, though by nature they 
were Beggars born, and their original had been the 

Thus they discoursed together till late at night; and 
after they had committed themselves to their Lord for 
protection, they betook themselves to rest: the Pilgrim 
they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window 
opened towards the Sun rising: the name of the chamber 


pilgrim's progress 57 

was Peace, where he slept till break of day, and then he 
awoke and sang, 

Where am I now? Is this the love and care 
Of Jesus for the men that Pilgrims are 
Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven 
And dwell already the next door to Heaven! 

So in the morning they all got up, and after some more christian 
discourse, they told him that he should not depart till 5,^^^ ^^ 
they had shewed him the Rarities of that place. And first what he saw 
they had him into the Study, where they shewed him 
Records of the greatest antiquity; in which, as I remem- 
ber my Dream, they shewed him first the Pedigree of the 
Lord of the Hill, that he was the Son of the Antient of 
Days, and came by an Eternal Generation. Here also 
was more fully recorded the Acts that he had done, and 
the names of many hundreds that he had taken into his 
service; and how he had placed them in such Habitations 
that could neither by length of Days, nor decays of Na- 
ture, be dissolved. 

Then they read to him some of the worthy Acts that 
some of his servants had done: as, how they had subdued 
Kingdoms, wrought 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, waxed valiant in fight, and turned to 
flight the Armies of the Aliens. 

Then they read again in another part of the Records 
of the house, where it was shewed how willing their 
Lord was to receive into his favour any, even any, though 
they in time past had offered great affronts to his Person 
and proceedings. Here also were several other Histories 
of many other famous things, of all which Christian 
had a view; as of things both Antient and Modern: 
together with Prophecies and Predictions of things that 
have their certain accomplishment, both to the dread 
and amazement of Enemies, and the comfort and solace 
of Pilgrims. 


had into the 

Christian is 
made to see 

showed the 


The next day they took him and had him into the 
Armory, where they shewed him all manner of Furni- 
ture, which their Lord had provided for Pilgrims, as 
Sword, Shield, Helmet, Breastplate, All-prayer, and 
Shoes that would not wear out. And there was here 
enough of this to harness out as many men for the service 
of their Lord as there be Stars in the Heaven for multi- 

They also shewed him some of the Engines with which 
some of his Servants had done wonderful things. They 
shewed him Mose/ Rod; the Hammer and Nail with 
which ]ael slew Sisera; the Pitchers, Trump)ets and 
Lamps too, with which Gideon put to flight the Armies 
of Midian: Then they shewed him the Ox's goad where- 
with Shamgar slew six hundred men: They shewed him 
also the Jaw-bone with which Samson did such mighty 
feats: They shewed him moreover the Sling and Stone 
with which Datnd slew Goliah of Gath; and the Sword 
also with which their Lord will kill the Man of Sin, in 
the day that he shall rise up to the prey. They shewed 
him besides many excellent things, with which Christian 
was much delighted. This done, they went to their rest 

Then I saw in my Dream, that on the morrow he got 
up to go forwards, but they desired him to stay till the 
next day also; and then, said they, we will (if the day be 
clear) shew you the Delectable Mountains, which, they 
said, would yet further add to his comfort, because they 
were nearer the desired Haven than the place where at 
present he was: so he consented and stayed. When the 
morning was up, they had him to the top of the House, 
and bid him look South; so he did: and behold at a great 
distance he saw a most pleasant Mountainous Country, 
beautified with Woods, Vineyards, Fruits of all sorts, 
Flowers also, with Springs and Fountains, very delect- 
able to behold. Then he asked the name of the Country: 

They said it was Immanuel's Land; and it is as com- 


mon, they said, as this Hill is, to and for all the Pilgrims. 
And when thou comest there, from thence, said they, 
thou mayest see to the gate of the Coelestial City, as the 
Shepherds that live there will make appear. 

Now he bethought himself of setting forward, and Chrisnan 
they were willing he should : but first, said they, let us go 
again into the Armory: So they did; and when they came 
there, they harnessed him from head to foot with what 
was of proof, lest perhaps he should meet with assaults chmdan 
in the way. He being therefore thus accoutred, walketh armed 
out with his friends to the Gate, and there he asked the 
Porter if he saw any Pilgrims pass by: Then the Porter 
answered. Yes. 

Chr. Pray, did you know him? said he. 

Por, I asked his name, and he told me it was Faithful. 

Chr. O, said Christian, I know him; he is my Towns- 
man, my near Neighbor, he comes from the place where 
I was born: How far do you think he may be before? 

Por. He is got by this time below the Hill. 

Chr. Well, said Christian, good Porter, the Lord be How 

with thee, and add to all thy blessings much increase, for j^j ,1,^ 

the kindness that thou hast shewed to me. Porter greet 

at parting 

Whilst Christian is among his godly friends, 
Their golden mouths make him sufficient mends 
For ail his griefs, and when they let him go, 
He's clad with northern Steel from top to toe. 

Then he began to go forward; but Discretion, Piety, The Valley 
Charity, and Prudence, would accompany him down to ^^^„„ 
the foot of the Hill. So they went on together, reiterat- 
ing their former discourses, till they came to go down the 
Hill. Then said Christian, As it was difficult coming up, 
so (so far as I can see) it is dangerous going down. Yes, 
said Prudence, so it is, for it is a hard matter for a man 
to go down into the Valley of Humiliation, as thou art 
now, and to catch no slip by the way; therefore, said 
they, are we come out to accompany thee down the Hill. 


has no 
armour for 
bis back 

at the ap- 
proach of 







So he began to go down, but very warily; yet he caught 
a slip or two. 

Then I saw in my Dream that these good Companions, 
when Christian was gone down to the bottom of the 
Hill, gave him a loaf of Bread, a bottle of Wine, and a 
cluster of Raisins; and then he went on his way. 

But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian 
was hard put to it; for he had gone but a little way, before 
he espied a foul Fiend coming over the field to meet 
him; his name is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to 
be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or 
to stand his ground: But he considered again that he had 
no Armor for his back, and therefore thought that to 
turn the back to him might give him the greater ad- 
vantage with ease to pierce him with his Darts. There- 
fore he resolved to venture and stand his ground; For, 
thought he, had I no more in mine eye than the saving 
of my life, 'twould be the best way to stand. 

So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the Mon- 
ster was hideous to behold; he was cloathed with 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 as the mouth of a Lion. 
When he was come up to Christian, he beheld him with 
a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question 
with him. 

Apol. Whence come you ? and whither are you bound ? 

Chr. I am come from the City of Destruction, which 
is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion. 

Apol. By this I perceive thou art one of my Subjects, 
for all that Country is mine, and I am the Prince and 
God of it. How is it then that thou hast run away from 
thy King? Were it not that I hope thou may est do me 
more service, I would strike thee now at one blow to the 

Chr. I was born indeed in your dominions, but your 
service was hard, and your wages such as a man could 

pilgrim's progress 6i 

not live on, for the wages of sin is death; therefore when 
I was come to years, I did as other considerate persons do, 
look out, if perhaps I might mend myself. 

Apol. There is no Prince that will thus lightly lose his Apollyon's 
Subjects, neither will I as yet lose thee: but since thou 
complainest of thy service and wages, be content to go 
back; what our Country will afford, I do here promise 
to give thee. 

Chr. But I have let myself to another, even to the 
King of Princes, and how can I with fairness go back 
with thee? 

Apol. Thou hast done in this, according to the Proverb, Apollyon 
changed a bad for a worse; but it is ordinary for those values 
that have professed themselves his Servants, after a while Christ's 
to give him the slip, and return again to me: Do thou so 
too, and all shall be well. 

Chr. I have given him my faith, and sworn my allegi- 
ance to him; how then can I go back from this, and not 
be hanged as a Traitor? 

Apol. Thou didst the same to me, and yet I am willing Apollyon 
to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet turn again and go back. \o\x 

Chr. What I promised thee was in my nonage; and merciful 
besides, I count that the Prince under whose Banner now 
I stand is able to absolve me; yea, and to pardon also what 
I did as to my compliance with thee; and besides, O thou 
destroying Apollyon, to sjjeak truth, I like his Service, his 
Wages, his Servants, his Government, his Company and 
Country, better than thine; and therefore leave off to 
persuade me further; I am his Servant and I will follow 

Apol, Consider again when thou art in cool blood, Apollyon 

what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou grievous 

goest. Thou knowest that for the most part, his Servants c"«'* °f 

.., J 1 I christians, 

come to an Ul end, because they are transgressors agamst ,„ dissuade 

me and my ways: How many of them have been put to Christian 

shameful deaths; and besides, thou countest his service sisting in his 

better than mine, whereas he never came yet from the "^y 


against him 

Apollyon in 
a rage falls 


place where he is to deHver any that served him out 
of our hands; but as for me, how many times, as all 
the World very well knows, have I delivered, either by 
power or fraud, those that have faithfully served me, 
from him and his, though taken by them; and so I will 
deliver thee. 

Chr. His forbearing at present to deliver them is on 
purpose to try their love, whether they will cleave to him 
to the end; and as for the ill end thou sayest they come 
to, that is most glorious in their account; for for present 
deliverance, they do not much expect it, for they stay 
for their Glory, and then they shall have it, when their 
Prince comes in his and the Glory of the Angels. 

Apol. Thou hast already been unfaithful in thy service 
to him, and how dost thou think to receive wages of him? 

Chr. Wherein, O Apollyon, have I been unfaithful to 

Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting out, when thou 
wast almost choked in the Gulf of Dispond; thou didst 
attempt wrong ways to be rid of thy Burden, whereas 
thou shouldest have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off; 
thou didst sinfully sleep and lose thy choice thing; thou 
wast also almost persuaded to go back, at the sight of the 
Lions; and when thou talkest of thy Journey, and of what 
thou hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desirous of 
vain-glory in all that thou sayest or doest. 

Chr. All this is true, and much more which thou hast 
left out; but the Prince whom I serve and honor is merci- 
ful, and ready to forgive; but besides, these infirmities 
possessed me in thy Country, for there I sucked them in, 
and I have groaned under them, been sorry for them, 
and have obtained Pardon of my Prince. 

Apol. Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous rage, 
saying, I am an enemy to this Prince; I hate his Person, 
his Laws, and People; I am come out on purpose to with- 
stand thee. 

Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do, for I am in the 

pilgrim's progress 63 

King's High-way, the way of Holiness, therefore take 
heed to yourself. 

Apol. Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole 
breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this 
matter, prepare thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal 
Den, that thou shall go no further; here will I spill thy 

And with that he threw a flaming Dart at his breast, 
but Christian had a Shield in his hand, with which he 
caught it, and so prevented the danger of that. 

Then did Christian draw, for he saw 'twas time to Christian 
bestir him: and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing j,;, under- 
Darts as thick as Hail; by the which, notwithstanding standing, 
all that Christian could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded conversation 
him in his head, his hand, and joot: This made Christian 
give a little back; Apollyon therefore followed his work 
amain, and Christian again took courage, and resisted 
as manfully as he could. This sore Combat lasted for 
above half a day, even till Christian was almost quite 
spent; for you must know that Christian, by reason of 
his wounds, must needs grow weaker and weaker. 

Then Apollyon espying his opportunity, began to Apollyon 
gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave jo^n to the 
him a dreadful fall; and with that Christian's Sword flew uround 
out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee 
now: and with that he had almost pressed him to death, 
so that Christian began to despair of life: but as God 
would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last 
blow, thereby to make a full end of this good man. 
Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for his Sword, 
and caught it, saying. Rejoice not against me, O mine 
Enemy! when I jail I shall arise; and with that gave him 
a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that 
had received his mortal wound: Christian, perceiving Christian's 
that, made at him again, saying, Nay, in all these things Apollyon"'" 
we are more than Conquerors through him that loved us. 
And with that Apollyon spread forth his Dragon's wings. 

A brief 
relition of 
the combat 
by the 

64 pilgrim's progress 

and sped him away, that Christian for a season saw him 
no more. 

In this Combat no man can imagine, unless he had seen 
and heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring 
Apollyon made all the time of the fight, he spake like a 
Dragon; and on the other side, what sighs and groans 
burst from Christian's heart. I never saw him all the 
while give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived 
he had wounded Apollyon with his two-edged Sword; 
then indeed he did smile, and look upward; but 'twas 
the dreadfullest sight that ever I saw. 

A more unequal match can hardly be: 
Christian must fight an Angel; but you sec 
The Valiant Man by handling Sword and Shield, 
Doth make him, tho' a Dragon, quit the field. 

So when the Battle was over. Christian said, I will 
here give thanks to him that hath delivered me out of 
the mouth of the Lion, to him that did help me against 
Apollyon. And so he did, saying. 

Great Beelzebub, the Captain of this Fiend, 
Design'd my ruin; therefore to this end 
He sent him harness'd out: and he with rage 
That hellish was, did fiercely me engage: 
But blessed Michael helped me, and I 
By dint of Sword did quickly make him fly. 
Therefore to him let me give lasting praise, 
And thank and bless his holy name always. 

Chriitian Then there came to him a hand, with some of the leaves 

journey with of the Tree of Life, the which Christian took, and apphed 
to the wounds that he had received in the Battle, and 
was healed immediately. He also sat down in that place 
to eat Bread, and to drink of the Bottle that was given 
him a little before; so being refreshed, he addressed him- 
self to his Journey, with his Sword drawn in his hand; 
for he said, I know not but some other Enemy may be 
at hand. But he met with no other affront from Apollyon 
quite through this Valley. 

gives God 
thanks for 

his sword 
drawn in 
his hand 

pilgrim's progress 65 

Now at the end of this Valley was another, called the TTie Valley 
Valley of the Shadow of Death, and Christian must needs shadow of 
go through it, because the way to the Ccelestial City lay Oeith 
through the midst of it. Now, this Valley is a very soli- 
tary place. The Prophet Jeremiah thus describes it: A 
wilderness, a land of desarts and of pits, a land of drought, 
and of the shadow of death, a land that no man (but a 
Christian) passeth through, and where no man dwelt. 

Now here Christian was worse put to it than in his 
fight with Apollyon, as by the sequel you shall see. 

I saw then in my Dream, that when Christian was got The chil- 
to the borders of the Shadow of Death, there met him ^p^^ ^ 
two men. Children of them that brought up an evil re- back 
port of the good land, making haste to go back; to whom 
Christian spake as follows, 

Chr. Whither are you going.? 

Men. They said. Back, back; and we would have you 
to do so too, if either life or peace is prized by you. 

Chr. Why, what's the matter? said Christian, 

Men. Matter! said they; we were going that way as you 
are going, and went as far as we durst; and indeed we 
were almost past coming back; for had we gone a little 
further, we had not been here to bring the news to thee. 

Chr. But what have you met with? said Christian. 

Men. Why we were almost in the Valley of the Shadow 
of Death; but that by good hap we looked before us, and 
saw the danger before we came to it. 

Chr. But what have you seen? said Christian. 

Men. Seen! Why, the Valley itself, which is as dark 
as pitch; we also saw there the Hobgoblins, Satyrs, and 
Dragons of the Pit; we heard also in that Valley a con- 
tinual howling and yelling, as of a people under unutter- 
able misery, who there sat bound in affliction and irons; 
and over that Valley hangs the discouraging clouds of 
Confusion; Death also doth always spread his wings 
over it. In a word, it is every whit dreadful, being utterly 
without Order. 

66 pilgrim's progress 

Chr. Then said Christian, I perceive not yet, by what 
you have said, but that this is my way to the desired 

Men. Be it thy way; we will not chuse it for ours. So 
they parted, and Christian went on his way, but still with 
his Sword drawn in his hand, for fear lest he should be 

I saw then in my Dream, so far as this Valley reached, 
there was on the right hand a very deep Ditch ; that Ditch 
is it into which the blind have led the bhnd in all ages, 
and have both there miserably perished. Again, behold 
on the left hand, there was a very dangerous Quag, into 
which, if even a good man falls, he can find no bottom 
for his foot to stand on. Into that Quag King David 
once did fall, and had no doubt therein been smothered, 
had not he that is able pluckt him out. 

The path-way was here also exceeding narrow, and 
therefore good Christian was the more put to it; for 
when he sought in the dark to shun the ditch on the one 
hand, he was ready to tip over into the mire on the other; 
also when he sought to escape the mire, without great 
carefulness he would be ready to fall into the ditch. Thus 
he went on, and I heard him here sigh bitterly; for, be- 
sides the dangers mentioned above, the path-way was 
here so dark, that ofttimes, when he Hft up his foot to 
set forward, he knew not where, or upon what he should 
set it next. 

Poor man! where art thou now? Thy Day is Night. 
Good man be not cast down, thou yet art right: 
Thy way to Heaven lies by the gates of Hell; 
Chear up, hold out, with thee it shall go well. 

Christian About the midst of this Valley, I perceived the mouth of 

stand" but ^^^' '° ^' ''"'^ '^ Stood also hard by the wayside. Now 

for a while thought Christian, what shall I do? And ever and anon 

the flame and smoke would come out in such abundance, 

with sparks and hideous noises (things that cared not 

for Christian's Sword, as did Apollyon before) that he 

pilgrim's progress 67 

was forced to put up his Sword, and betake himself to 
another weapon, called All-prayer. So he cried in my 
hearing, Lord I beseech thee deliver my Soul. Thus 
he went on a great while, yet still the flames would be 
reaching towards him : Also he heard doleful voices, and 
rushings to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he 
should be torn in pieces, or trodden down like mire in 
the Streets. This frightful sight was seen, and these 
dreadful noises were heard by him for several miles 
together; and coming to a place where he thought he 
heard a company of Fiends coming forward to meet him, 
he stopt, and began to muse what he had best to do. 
Sometimes he had half a thought to go back; then again 
he thought he might be half way through the Valley; 
he remembered also how he had already vanquished 
many a danger, and that the danger of going back might 
be much more than for to go forward; so he resolved 
to go on. Yet the Fiends seemed to come nearer and 
nearer; but when they were come even almost at him, 
he cried out with a most vehement voice, / will wall{ in 
the strength of the Lord God; so they gave back, and 
came no further. 

One thing I would not let slip; I took notice that now Christian 
poor Christian was so confounded, that he did not know j^^^/ ,i,j,* 
his own voice; and thus I perceived it; Just when he was he spake 
come over against the mouth of the burning Pit, one ^^f^ it^'was 
of the wicked ones got behind him, and stept up softly Satan that 
to him, and whisperingly suggested many grievous bias- (fj^^nto 
phemies to him, which he verily thought had proceeded his mind 
from his own mind. This put Christian more to it than 
anything that he met with before, even to think that he 
should now blaspheme him that he loved so much before; 
yet, if he could have helped it, he would not have done 
it; but he had not the discretion neither to stop his ears, 
nor to know from whence those blasphemies came. 

When Christian had travelled in this disconsolate con- 
dition some considerable time, he thought he heard the 


glad at 
break of 

Tbe second 
part of this 
valley very 


voice of a man, as going before him, saying, Though I 
tvall{ through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I mil 
fear none ill, for thou art with me. 

Then was he glad, and that for these reasons: 

First, Because he gathered from thence, that some who 
feared God were in this Valley as well as himself. 

Secondly, For that he perceived God was with them, 
though in that dark and dismal state; and why not, 
thought he, with me? though by reason of the impedi- 
ment that attends this place, I cannot perceive it. 

Thirdly, For that he hoped, could he overtake them, 
to have company by and by. So he went on, and called 
to him that was before; but he knew not what to answer, 
for that he also thought himself to be alone. And by and 
by the day broke; then said Christian, He hath turned the 
Shadow of Death into the morning. 

Now morning being come, he looked back, not out 
of desire to return, but to see, by the light of the day, what 
hazards he had gone through in the dark. So he saw 
more perfectly the Ditch that was on the one hand, and 
the Quag that was on the other; also how narrow the way 
was which led betwixt them both; also now he saw the 
Hobgoblins, and Satyrs, and Dragons of the Pit, but all 
afar off; for after break of day, they came not nigh; yet 
they were discovered to him, according to that which is 
written. He discovered deep things out of darl^ness, and 
bringeth out to light the Shadow of Death. 

Now was Christian much afTected with his deliverance 
from all the dangers of his solitary way; which dangers, 
though he feared them more before, yet he saw them 
more clearly now, because the light of the day made 
them conspicuous to him. And about this time the Sun 
was rising, and this was another mercy to Christian; for 
you must note, that though the first part of the Valley of 
the Shadow of Death was dangerous, yet this second part 
which he was yet to go, was, if possible, far more danger- 
ous: for from the place where he now stood, even to 

pilgrim's progress 69 

the end of the Valley, the way was all along set so full 
of Snares, Traps, Gins, and Nets here, and so full of Pits, 
Pitfalls, deep Holes, and Shelvings down there, that had 
it now been dark, as it was when he came the first part 
of the way, had he had a thousand souls, they had in 
reason been cast away; but as I said, just now the Sua 
was rising. Then said he. His candle shineth on my head, 
and by his light I go through darl{ness. 

In this light therefore he came to the end of the Valley. 
Now I saw in my Dream, that at the end of this Valley 
lay blood, bones, ashes, and mangled bodies of men, even 
of Pilgrims that had gone this way formerly; and while 
I was musing what should be the reason, I espied a little 
before me a Cave, where two Giants, Pope and Pagan, 
dwelt in old time; by whose power and tyranny the men 
whose bones, blood, ashes, &c. lay there, were cruelly put 
to death. But by this place Christian went without much 
danger, whereat I somewhat wondered; but I have learnt 
since, that Pagan has been dead many a day; and as for 
the other, though he be yet alive, he is by reason of age, 
and also of the many shrewd brushes that he met with 
in his younger days, grown so crazy, and stiff in his 
joints, that he can now do little more than sit in his Cave's 
mouth, grinning at Pilgrims as they go by, and biting his 
nails, because he cannot come to them. 

So I saw that Christian went on his way; yet at the 
sight of the Old Man that sat in the mouth of the Cave, 
he could not tell what to think, specially because he spake 
to him, though he could not go after him, saying, You 
tvill never mend till more of you be burned: But he held 
his peace, and set a good face on't, and so went by and 
catcht no hurt. Then sang Christian, 

O world of wonders! (I can say no less) 
That I should be preserv'd in that distress 
That I have met with here! O blessed be 
That hand that from it hath delivered me! 
Dangers in darkness, Devils, Hell, and Sin, 



fall makes 
Faithful and 
he go 


Did compass me, while I this Vale was in: 
Yea, Snares, and Pits, and Traps, and Nets did lie 
My path about, that worthless silly I 
Might have been catch'd, intangled, and cast down; 
But since I live, let Jesus wear the Crown. 

Now as Christian went on his way, he came to a little 
ascent, which was cast up on purpose that Pilgrims might 
see before them. Up there therefore Christian went, and 
looking forward, he saw Faithful before him, upon his 
Journey. Then said Christian aloud. Ho, ho, So-ho; stay, 
and I will be your Companion. At that Faithful looked 
behind him; to whom Christian cried again. Stay, stay, till 
I come up to you : But Faithful answered, No, I am upon 
my life, and the Avenger of Blood is behind me. 

At this Christian was somewhat moved, and putting 
to all his strength, he quickly got up with Faithful, and 
did also overrun him, so the last was first. Then did 
Christian vain-gloriously smile, because he had gotten 
the start of his Brother; but not taking good heed to his 
feet, he suddenly stumbled and fell, and could not rise 
again, until Faithful came up to help him. 

Then I saw in my Dream they went very lovingly on 
together, and had sweet discourse of all things that had 
happened to them in their Pilgrimage; and thus Chris- 
tian began: 

Chr. My honoured and well beloved Brother Faithful, 
I am glad that I have overtaken you; and that God has 
so tempered our spirits, that we can walk as Compaoioos 
in this so pleasant a path. 

Faith. I had thought, dear Friend, to have had your 
company quite from our Town; but you did get the 
start of me, wherefore I was forced to come thus much 
of the way alone. 

Chr. How long did you stay in the City of Destruction, 
before you set out after me on your Pilgrimage? 

Faith. Till I could stay no longer; for there was great 
talk presently after you were gone out, that our City 


would in short time with Fire from Heaven be burned Their ulk 
down to the ground. country 

Chr. What, did your Neighbors talk so? f™"" 

Faith. Yes, 'twas for a while in everybody's mouth. ^^y £jm,g 

Chr. What, and did no more of them but you come out 
to escape the danger? 

Faith. Though there was, as I said, a great talk there- 
about, yet I do not think they did firmly believe it. For 
in the heat of the discourse, I heard some of them derid- 
ingly speak of you and of your desperate Journey, (for 
so they called this your Pilgrimage) but I did believe, and 
do still, that the end of our City will be with Fire and 
Brimstone from above; and therefore I have made mine 

Chr. Did you hear no talk of Neighbor Pliable? 

Faith. Yes Christian, I heard that he followed you till 
he came at the Slough of Dispond, where, as some said, 
he fell in; but he would not be known to have so done; 
but I am sure he was soundly bedabbled with that kind of 

Chr. And what said the Neighbors to him? 

Faith. He hath since his going back been had greatly f^"* Pliable 
in derision, and that among all sorts of people; some do counted of, 
mock and despise him; and scarce will any set him on when he got 
work. He is now seven times worse than if he had never 
gone out of the City. 

Chr. But why should they be so set against him, since 
they also despise the way that he forsook ? 

Faith. Oh, they say, Hang him, he is a Turncoat, he 
was not true to his profession: I think God has stirred 
up even his Enemies to hiss at him, and make him z 
Proverb, because he hath forsaken the way. 

Chr. Had you no talk with him before you came out? 

Faith. I met him once in the Streets, but he leered 
away on the other side, as one ashamed of what he had 
done; so I spake not to him. 

Chr. Well, at my first setting out, I had hopes of that 


The dog 
and the sow 

by Wanton 


man; but now I fear he will perish in the overthrow of 
the City, for it is happened to him according to the true 
Proverb, The Dog is turned to his Vomit again, and the 
Sow that tvas washed to her wallowing in the Mire. 

Faith. They are my fears of him too; but who can 
hinder that which will be ? 

Chr. Well Neighbor Faithful, said Christian, let us 
leave him, and talk of things that more immediately con- 
cern ourselves. Tell me now, what you have met with in 
the way as you came; for I know you have met with 
some things, or else it may be writ for a wonder. 

Faith. I escaped the Slough that I perceive you fell into, 
and got up to the Gate without that danger; only I met 
with one whose name was Wanton, that had like to have 
done me a mischief. 

Chr. 'Twas well you escaped her Net; Joseph was hard 
put to it by her, and he escajjed her as you did; but it 
had like to have cost him his life. But what did she do 
to you? 

Faith. You cannot think (but that you know some- 
thing) what a flattering tongue she had; she lay at me 
hard to turn aside with her, promising me all manner 
of content. 

Chr. Nay, she did not promise you the content of a 
good conscience. 

Faith. You know what I mean, all carnal and fleshly 

Chr. Thank God you have escaped her: The abhorred 
of the Lord shall fall into her Ditch. 

Faith. Nay, I know not whether I did wholly escape 
her or no. 

Chr. Why, I tro you did not consent to her desires. 

Faith. No, not to defile myself; for I remembred an 
old writing that I had seen, which saith, Her steps ta/^e 
hold of Hell. So I shut mine eyes, because I would not be 
bewitched with her looks: then she railed on me, and I 
went my way. 



Chr. Did you meet with no other assault as you came? 

Faith. When I came to the foot of the Hill called "','*,*?' 
Difficulty, I met with a very aged Man, who asked me, Adam the 
What I was, and whither bound? I told him. That I was P'"* 
a Pilgrim, going to the Ccelestial City. Then said the 
old man. Thou lookest like an honest fellow; wilt thou 
be content to dwell with me for the wages that I shall 
give thee? Then I asked him his name, and where he 
dwelt? He said his name was Adam the First, and I 
dwell in the Town of Deceit. I asked him then, What 
was his work? and what the wages that he would give? 
He told me. That his work was many delights; and his 
wages, that I should be his Heir at last. I further asked 
him. What House he kept, and what other Servants he 
had? So he told me, That his House was maintained 
with all the dainties in the world; and that his Servants 
were those of his own begetting. Then I asked how many 
Children he had? He said that he had but three Daugh- 
ters: The Lust of the Flesh, The Lust of the Eyes, and 
The Pride of Life, and that I should marry them all if 
I would. Then I asked him how long time he would 
have me live with him ? And he told me, As long as he 
lived himself. 

Chr. Well, and what conclusion came the old man 
and you to at last? 

Faith. Why, at first, I felt myself somewhat inclinable 
to go with the man, for I thought he spake very fair; 
but looking in his forehead, as I talked with him, I saw 
there written. Put off the old man with his deeds. 

Chr. And how then ? 

Faith. Then it came burning hot into my mind, what- 
ever he said, and however he flattered, when he got me 
home to his House, he would sell me for a slave. So I 
bid him forbear to talk, for I would not come near the 
door of his House. Then he reviled me, and told me that 
he would send such a one after me, that should make 
my way bitter to my Soul. So I turned to go away from 


him; but just as I turned myself to go thence, I feh him 
take hold of my flesh and give me such a deadly twitch 
back, that I thought he had pulled part of me after him- 
self. This made me cry, O wretched Man! So I went on 
my way up the Hill. 

Now when I had got about halfway up, I looked behind 
me, and saw one coming after me, swift as the wind; so 
he overtook me just about the place where the Settle 

Chr. Just there, said Christian, did I sit down to rest 
me; but being overcome with sleep, I there lost this Roll 
out of my bosom. 

Faith. But good Brother hear me out. So soon as the 
man overtook me, he was but a word and a blow, for 
down he knocked me, and laid me for dead. But when I 
was a little come to myself again, I asked him wherefore 
he served me so? He said, Because of my secret inclining 
to Adam the First: and with that he struck me another 
deadly blow on the breast, and beat me down backward, 
so I lay at his foot as dead as before. So when I came to 
myself again I cried him mercy; but he said, I know not 
how to shew mercy; and with that knocked me down 
again. He had doubtless made an end of me, but that 
one came by, and bid him forbear. 

Chr. Who was that that bid him forbear? 

Faith. I did not know him at first, but as he went by, 

I perceived the holes in his hands and in his side; then 

I concluded that he was our Lord. So I went up the Hill. 

The temper Chr. That man that overtook you was Moses: He 

°^ spareth none, neither knoweth he how to shew mercy 

to those that transgress his Law. 

Faith. I know it very well; it was not the first time 
that he has met with me. 'Twas he that came to me when 
I dwelt securely at home, and that told me. He would 
burn my house over my head if I staid there. 

Chr. But did you not see the house that stood there 


on the top of that Hill, on the side of which Moses met 

Faith. Yes, and the Lions too, before I came at it: but 
for the Lions, I think they were asleep, for it was about 
Noon; and because I had so much of the day before me, 
I passed by the Porter, and came down the Hill. 

Chr. He told me indeed that he saw you go by, but 
I wish you had called at the house, for they would have 
shewed you so many Rarities, that you would scarce have 
forgot them to the day of your death. But pray tell me, 
Did you meet nobody in the Valley of Humility? 

Faith. Yes, I met with one Discontent, who would Faithful 
wiUingly have persuaded me to go back again with him; i,' p^. 
his reason was, for that the Valley was altogether with- content 
out honour. He told me moreover, that there to go was 
the way to disobey all my friends, as Pride, Arrogancy, 
Self<onceit, Worldly-glory, with others, who he knew, 
as he said, would be very much offended, if I made such 
a Fool of myself as to wade through this Valley. 

Chr. Well, and how did you answer him ? 

Faith. I told him, That although all these that he had Faithfuri 
named might claim kindred of me, and that righdy, (for DiKontem 
indeed they were my Relations according to the flesh) 
yet since I became a Pilgrim they have disowned me, as 
I also have rejected them ; and therefore they were to me 
now no more than if they had never been of my lineage. 
I told him moreover, that as to this Valley, he had quite 
misrepresented the thing; jor before Honour is Humility, 
and a haughty spirit before a fall. Therefore said I, I had 
rather go through this Valley to the honour that was so 
accounted by the wisest, than chuse the way which he 
esteemed most worthy our affections. 

Chr. Met you with nothing else in that Valley? 

Faith. Yes, I met with Shame; but of all the men that He is as- 
I met with in my Pilgrimage, he I think bears the wrong shame 
name. The other would be said nay, after a litde argu- 

76 pilgrim's progress 

mentation, (and somewhat else) but this boldfaced 
Shame would never have done. 

Chr. Why, what did he say to you ? 

Faith, WhatI why he objected against Religion itself; 
he said it was a pitiful low sneaking business for a man 
to mind Religion; he said that a tender conscience was 
an unmanly thing; and that for a man to watch over his 
words and ways, so as to tie up himself from that hector- 
ing liberty that the brave spirits of the times accustom 
themselves unto, would make him the ridicule of the 
times. He objected also, that but few of the Mighty, 
Rich, or Wise, were ever of my opinion; nor any of them 
neither, before they were persuaded to be Fools, and to 
be of a voluntary fondness to venture the loss of all, 
jor nobody else knows what. He moreover objected the 
base and low estate and condition of those that were 
chiefly the Pilgrims of the times in which they lived: 
also their ignorance, and want of understanding in all 
Natural Science. Yea, he did hold me to it at that rate 
also, about a great many more things than here I relate; 
as, that it was a shame to sit whining and mourning 
under a Sermon, and a shame to come sighing and groan- 
ing home; that it was a shame to ask my Neighbour for- 
giveness for petty faults, or to make restitution where I 
had taken from any. He said also that Religion made a 
man grow strange to the great, because of a few vices 
(which he called by finer names) and made him own and 
respect the base, because of the same Religious Fraternity. 
And is not this, said he, a shame? 

Chr. And what did you say to him? 

Fcttth. Say! I could not tell what to say at first. Yea, 
he put me so to it, that my blood came up in my face; 
even this Shame fetched it up, and had ilmost beat me 
quite off. But at last I began to consider. That that which 
is highly esteemed amongMen, is had in abomination with 
God. And I thought again, this Shame tells me what men 
are; but it tells me nothing what God or the Word of God 

pilgrim's progress 'J'J 

is. And I thought moreover, that at the day of doom, we 
shall not be doomed to death or life according to the 
hectoring spirits of the world, but according to the Wis- 
dom and Law of the Highest. Therefore thought I, what 
God says is best, is best, though all the men in the world 
are against it. Seeing then that God prefers his Religion, 
seeing God prefers a tender Conscience, seeing they that 
make themselves Fools for the Kingdom of Heaven are 
wisest; and that the poor man that loveth Christ is richer 
than the greatest man in the world that hates him; Shame 
depart, thou art an enemy to my Salvation: shall I enter- 
tain thee against my Sovereign Lord? How then shall 
I look him in the face at his coming? Should I now be 
ashamed of his ways and Servants, how can I expect the 
blessing? But indeed this Shame was a bold villain; I 
could scarce shake him out of my company; yea, he would 
be haunting of me, and continually whispering me in 
the ear, with some one or other of the infirmities that 
attend Religion; but at last I told him, 'Twas but in vain 
to attempt further in this business; for those things that 
he disdained, in those did I see most glory; and so at last 
I got past this importunate one. And when I had shaken 
him off, then I began to sing: 

The tryals that those men do meet withal, 

That are obedient to the Heavenly call, 

Arc manifold, and suited to the flesh, 

And come, and come, and come again afresh; 

That now, or some time else, we by them may 

Be taken, overcome, and cast away. 

Oh, let the Pilgrims, let the Pilgrims then. 

Be vigilant, and quit themselves like men. 

Chr. I am glad, my Brother, that thou didst withstand 
this Villain so bravely; for of all, as thou sayest, I think 
he has the wrong name; for he is so bold as to follow 
us in the Streets, and to attempt to put us to shame before 
all men; that is, to make us ashamed of that which is 
good: but if he was not himself audacious, he would 

78 pilgrim's progress 

never attempt to do as he does; but let us still resist him; 
for notwithstanding all his bravadoes, he promoteth the 
Fool and none else. The Wise shall inherit glory, said 
Solomon, but shame shall be the promotion of Fools. 

Faith. I think we must cry to Him for help against 
Shame, that would have us to be valiant for Truth upon 
the Earth. 

Chr. You say true; but did you meet nobody else in 
that Valley? 

Faith. No not I; for I had Sun-shine all the rest of 
the way through that, and also through the Valley of 
the Shadow of Death. 

Chr. 'Twas well for you; I am sure it fared far other- 
wise with me; I had for a long season, as soon almost as 
I entred into that Valley, a dreadful Combat with that 
foul Fiend Apollyon; yea, I thought verily he would 
have killed me, esp)ecially when he got me down and 
crushed me under him, as if he would have crushed 
me to pieces; for as he threw me, my Sword flew out of 
my hand; nay, he told me. He tvas sure of me: but / cried 
to God, and he heard me, and delivered me out of all 
my troubles. Then I entred into the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death, and had no light for almost half the 
way through it. I thought I should have been killed there, 
over and over; but at last day brake, and the Sun rose, and 
I went through that which was behind with far more 
ease and quiet. 
Talkative Moreover, I saw in my Dream, that as they went on, 

Faithful, as he chanced to look on one side, saw a man 
whose name is Talkative, walking at a distance besides 
them; (for in this place there was room enough for them 
all to walk). He was a tall man, and something more 
comely at a distance than at hand. To this man Faithful 
addressed himself in this manner. 

Faith. Friend, Whither away? Are you going to the 
Heavenly Country? 

Talf^. I am going to the same place. 



Faith. That is well; then I hope we may have your 

good company. 

Tall{. With a very good will will I be your Companion. 

Faith. Come on then, and let us go together, and let Faithful and 
, .... . , , . , Talkative 

US spend our time m discoursmg ot thmgs that are e„ter dis- 

profitable. t^""'" 

Tall(^. To talk of things that are good, to me is very 
acceptable, with you or with any other; and I am glad 
that I have met with those that incline to so good a work; 
for to speak the truth, there are but few that care thus J.*'!',*''''f' 
to spend their time (as they are in their travels), but chuse tad dis- 
much rather to be speaking of things to no profit; and course 
this hath been a trouble to me. 

Faith. That is indeed a thing to be lamented; for what 
things so worthy of the use of the tongue and mouth of 
men on Earth as are the things of the God of Heaven } 

Tall{. I like you wonderful well, for your saying is full 
of conviction; and I will add, What thing so pleasant, 
and what so profitable, as to talk of the things of God.? 
What things so pleasant.' (that is, if a man hath any 
delight in things that are wonderful) for instance, if a 
man doth delight to talk of the History or the Mystery 
of things; or if a man doth love to talk of Miracles, Won- 
ders, or Signs, where shall he find things recorded so 
delightful, and so sweetly penned, as in the Holy Scrip- 
ture .'' 

Faith. That's true; but to be profited by such things 
in our talk should be that which we design. 

Talk,. That's it that I said; for to tall{ of such things is Talkativc's 
most profitable; for by so doing, a man may get knowl- djjcurse 
edge of many things; as of the vanity of earthly things, 
and the benefit of things above: (Thus in general) but 
more particularly. By this a man may learn the necessity 
of the New-birth, the insufficiency of our works, the need 
of Christ's righteousness, &c. Besides, by this a man may 
learn by tal^, what it is to repent, to believe, to pray, to 
suffer, or the like; by this also a man may learn what are 


O brave 

O brave 

bcRuilcd by 

makes a 
discovery of 

Faithful who 
he was 


the great promises and consolations of the Gospel, to his 
own comfort. Further, by this a man may learn to refute 
false opinions, to vindicate the truth, and also to instruct 
the ignorant. 

Faith. All this is true, and am I glad to hear these things 
from you. 

Tfl/^. Alas! the want of this is the cause that so few 
understand the need of faith, and the necessity of a work 
of Grace in their Soul, in order to eternal life; but igno- 
rantly live in the works of the Law, by which a man 
can by no means obtain the Kingdom of Heaven. 

Faith. But by your leave, Heavenly knowledge of these 
is the gift of God; no man attaineth to them by human 
industry, or only by the talk of them. 

Tfl/^. All this I know very well; for a man can receive 
nothing, except it be given him from Heaven: all is of 
Grace, not of Works: I could give you a hundred Scrip- 
tures for the confirmation of this. 

Faith. Well then, said Faithful, what is that one thing 
that we shall at this time found our discourse upon? 

Tall{^. What you will. I will talk of things Heavenly, 
or things Earthly; things Moral, or things Evangelical; 
things Sacred or things Prophane; things past or things 
to come; things foreign or things at home; things more 
Essential or things Circumstantial; provided that all be 
done to our profit. 

Faith. Now did Faithful begin to wonder; and stepping 
to Christian (for he walked all this while by himself) he 
said to him, (but softly) What a brave Companion have 
we got! Surely this man will make a very excellent 

Chr. At this Christian modestly smiled, and said. This 
man with whom you are so taken, will beguile with this 
tongue of his, twenty of them that know him not. 

Faith. Do you know him then ? 

Chr. Know him! Yes, better than he knows himself. 

Faith. Pray what is he.' 

pilgrim's progress 8i 

Chr. His name is Ttdl^ative; he dwelleth in our Town: 
I wonder that you should be a stranger to him, only I 
consider that our Town is large. 

Faith. Whose Son is he? And whereabout doth he 

Chr. He is the son of one Say-well; he dwelt in Prating 
Rotv; and is known of all that are acquainted with him, 
by the name of Tall^ative in Prating Rotv; and notwith- 
standing his fine tongue, he is but a sorry fellow. 

Faith. Well, he seems to be a very pretty man. 

Chr. That is, to them who have thorough acquaintance 
with him, for he is best abroad, near home he is ugly 
enough: Your saying that he is a pretty man, brings to 
my mind what I have observed in the work of the Paint- 
er, whose Pictures shew best at a distance, but very near, 
more unpleasing. 

Faith. But I am ready to think you do but jest, because 
you smiled. 

Chr. God forbid that I should jest (though I smiled) in 
this matter, or that I should accuse any falsely: I will 
give you a further discovery of him: This man is for any 
company, and for any talk; as he talketh now with you, 
so he will talk when he is on the Ale-bench; and the 
more drink he hath in his crown, the more of these things 
he hath in his mouth; Religion hath no place in his heart, 
or house, or conversation; all he hath lieth in his tongue, 
and his Religion is to make a noise therewith. 

Faith. Say you so! Then am I in this man greatly 

Chr. Deceived! you may be sure of it; remember the Talkative 
Proverb, They say and do not: but the Kingdom of God jocs^'not 
is not in tvord, but in power. He talketh of Prayer, of 
Repentance, of Faith, and of the New-birth; but he 
knows but only to tall{ of them. I have been in his 
Family, and have observed him both at home and abroad; 
and I know what I say of him is the truth. His house is His house it 
as empty of Religion as the white of an Egg is of savour, religion 

82 pilgrim's progress 

There is there neither Prayer, nor sign of Repentance for 
sin; yea, the brute in his kind serves God better than he. 
He u a He is the very stain, reproach, and shame of ReUgion, 
religion to all that know him; it can hardly have a good word in 
all that end of the Town where he dwells through him. 
The proverb Thus Say the common people that know him, A Saint 
^ goes o gfy^g^^ g^j g Devil at home. His poor Family finds it 
so; he is such a churl, such a railer at, and so unreason- 
able with his Servants, that they neither know how to do 
Men shun to for, or speak to him. Men that have any dealings with 
liin, him, say 'tis better to deal with a Turl{ than with him; 

for fairer dealing they shall have at their hands. This 
Tall{ative (if it be p)ossible) will go beyond them, de- 
fraud, beguile, and over-reach them. Besides he brings 
up his Sons to follow his steps; and if he findeth in any 
of them a foolish timorousness, (for so he calls the first 
appearance of a tender conscience) he calls them fools 
and blockheads and by no means will imploy them in 
much, or speak to their commendations before others. 
For my part I am of opinion that he has by his wicked 
life caused many to stumble and fall; and will be, if God 
prevent not, the ruine of many more. 

Faith. Well, my Brother, I am bound to believe yoti; 
not only because you say you know him, but also be- 
cause like a Christian, you make your reports of men. 
For I cannot think that you speak these things of ill 
will, but because it is even so as you say. 

Chr. Had I known him no more than you, I might 
perhaps have thought of him as at the first you did; yea, 
had he received this report at their hands only that are 
enemies to Religion, I should have thought it had been 
a slander: (a lot that often falls from bad men's mouths 
upon good men's names and professions;) but all these 
things, yea and a great many more as bad, of my own 
knowledge I can prove him guilty of. Besides, good men 
are ashamed of him; they can neither call him Brother, 

pilgrim's progress 83 

nor Friend: the very naming of him among them, makes 
them blush, if they know him. 

Faith. Well, I see that saying and doing are two things, 
and hereafter I shall better observe this distinction. 

Chr. They are two things indeed, and are as diverse ""^^ "r"^"* 
as are the Soul and the Body; for as the Body without 
the Soul is but a dead Carcass, so Saying, if it be alone, is 
but a dead Carcass also. The Soul of Religion is the 
practick part: Pure Religion and undefiled, before God 
and the Father, is this. To visit the fatherless and widows 
in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from 
the world. This Talkative is not aware of; he thinks 
that hearing and saying will make a good Christian, and 
thus he deceiveth his own soul. Hearing is but as the sow- 
ing of the Seed; talking is not sufficient to prove that 
fruit is indeed in the heart and life; and let us assure 
ourselves, that at the day of Doom men shall be judged 
according to their fruits. It will not be said then. Did 
you believe? but Were you Doers, or Talkers only ? and 
accordingly shall they be judged. The end of the world 
is compared to our Harvest, and you know men at Har- 
vest regard nothing but fruit. Not that anything can 
be accepted that is not of Faith; but I speak this to shew 
you how insignificant the profession of Talkative will 
be at that day. 

Faith. This brings to my mind that of Moses, by which Faithful 
he describeth the beast that is clean. He is such an one ,i,e badness 
that parteth the Hoof and cheweth the Cud : not that of Talkative 
parteth the Hoof only, or that cheweth the Cud only. 
The Hare cheweth the Cud, but yet is unclean, because 
he parteth not the Hoof. And this truly resembleth 
Talkative; he cheweth the Cud, he seeketh knowledge, 
he cheweth upon the Word; but he divideth not the 
Hoof, he parteth not with the way of sinners; but as the 
Hare, he retaineth the foot of a Dog or Bear, and there- 
fore is unclean. 


like to 
things that 
sound with- 
out life 

false dis- 
covery of a 
work of 


Chr. You have spoken, for ought I know, the true 
Gospel sense of those Texts: And I will add another 
thing; Paul calleth some men, yea and those great Talk- 
ers too, sounding Brass and tinkling Cymbals; that is, 
as he expounds them in another place. Things without 
life, giving sound. Things without life, that is, without 
the true Faith and Grace of the Gospel; and consequently 
things that shall never be placed in the Kingdom of 
Heaven among those that are the Children of life; though 
their sound, by their tall{, be as if it were the tongue or 
Toice of an Angel. 

Faith. Well, I was not so fond of his company at first, 
but I am as sick of it now. What shall we do to be rid 
of him ? 

Chr. Take my advice, and do as I bid you, and you 
shall find that he will soon be sick of your company too, 
except God shall touch his heart, and turn it. 

Faith. What would you have me to do? 

Chr. Why, go to him, and enter into some serious 
discourse about the power of Religion; and ask him 
plainly (when he has approved of it, for that he will) 
whether this thing be set up in his Heart, House, or Con- 

Faith. Then Faithful stepped forward again, and said 
to Talkative, Come, what chear? How is it now? 

Talk- Thank you, well. I thought we should have had 
a great deal of talk by this time. 

Faith. Well, if you will, we will fall to it now; and 
since you left it with me to state the question, let it be 
this; How doth the saving Grace of God discover itself, 
when it is in the heart of man } 

Talk. I fjerceive then that our talk must be about the 
power of things: Well, 'tis a very good question, and I 
shall be willing to answer you. And take my answer in 
brief thus: First, Where the Grace of God is in the heart, 
it causeth there a great out-cry against sin. Secondly — 

Faith. Nay hold, let us consider of one at once: I think 


you should rather say, It shews itself by inclining the 
Soul to abhor its sin. 

Tfl/)^. Why, what difference is there between crying 
out against, and abhorring of sin? 

Faith. Oh! a great deal; a man may cry out against 
sin, or policy; but he cannot abhor it, but by vertue of 
a godly antipathy against it: I have heard many cry out 
against sin in the Pulpit, who yet can abide it well enough 
in the heart, house, and conversation. Joseph's Mistress 
cried out with a loud voice, as if she had been very holy; 
but she would willingly, notwithstanding that, have com- 
mitted uncleanness with him. Some cry out against sin, 
even as the Mother cries out against her Child in her 
lap, when she calleth it slut and naughty girl, and then 
falls to hugging and kissing it. 

Ta/^. You lie at the catch, I perceive. 

Faith. No, not I; I am only for setting things right. 
But what is the second thing whereby you would prove a 
discovery of a work of Grace in the heart ? 

Tfl/^. Great knowledge of Gospel Mysteries. 

Faith. This sign should have been first; but first or 
last, it is also false; for knowledge, great knowledge may 
be obtained in the mysteries of the Gospel, and yet no 
work of Grace in the Soul. Yea, if a man have all knowl- 
edge, he may yet be nothing; and so consequently be no 
child of God. When Christ said, Do you know all these 
things? and the Disciples had answered. Yes; he added 
Blessed are ye if ye do them. He doth not lay the blessing 
in the knowing of them, but in the doing of them. For 
there is a knowledge that is not attended with doing; 
He that \noweth his Master s will, and doth it not, A 
man may know like an Angel, and yet be no Christian, 
therefore your sign of it is not true. Indeed to kjiow is a 
thing that pleaseth Talkers and Boasters; but to do is 
that which pleaseth God. Not that the heart can be good 
without knowledge; for without that the heart is naught. 
There is therefore knowledge and knowledge. Knowl- 


To cry out 
against sin 

no sign of 










One good 
sign of 


edge that resteth in the bare speculation of things, and 
knowledge that is accompanied with the Grace of faith 
and love, which puts a man upon doing even the will 
of God from the heart; the first of these will serve the 
Talker; but without the other the true Christian is not 
content. Give me understanding, and I shall l^eep thy 
Law; yea I shall observe it with my whole heart. 

Tal/^. You lie at the catch again, this is not for edifica- 

Faith. Well, if you please propound another sign how 
this work of Grace discovereth itself where it is. 

Tal^. Not I, for I see we shall not agree. 

Faith. Well, if you will not, will you give me leave 
to do it? 

Ta/^. You may use your liberty. 

Faith. A work of Grace in the soul discovereth itself, 
either to him that hath it, or to standers-by. 

To him that hath it thus: It gives him conviction of 
sin, especially of the defilement of his nature and the 
sin of unbelief (for the sake of which he is sure to be 
damned, if he findeth not mercy at God's hand by faith 
in Jesus Christ). This sight and sense of things worketh 
in him sorrow and shame for sin; he findeth moreover 
revealed in him the Saviour of the world, and the abso- 
lute necessity of closing with him for life, at the which 
he findeth hungrings and thirstings after him, to which 
hungrings, &c. the promise is made. Now according to 
the strength or weakness of his Faith in his Saviour, so 
is his joy and peace, so is his love to holiness, so are his 
desires to know him more, and also to serve him in this 
World. But though I say it discovereth itself thus unto 
him, yet it is but seldom that he is able to conclude that 
this is a work of Grace; because his corruptions now, and 
his abused reason, make his mind to misjudge in this 
matter; therefore in him that hath this work, there is 
required a very sound Judgment before he can with 
steadiness conclude that this is a work of Grace. 

pilgrim's progress 87 

To others it is thus discovered : 

1. By an experimental confession of his Faith in Christ. 

2. By a life answerable to that confession, to wit, a life 
of holiness, heart-holiness, family-holiness, (if he hath a 
Family) and by conversation-holiness in the World; 
which in the general teacheth him, inwardly to abhor his 
sin, and himself for that in secret, to suppress it in his 
Family, and to promote holiness in the World; not by 
talk only, as an Hypocrite or Talkative person may do, 
but by a practical subjection, in Faith and Love, to the 
power of the Word : And now Sir, as to this brief descrip- 
tion of the work of Grace, and also the discovery of it, 
if you have ought to object, object; if not, then give me 
leave to propound to you a second question. 

Tall{. Nay my part is not now to object, but to hear, 
let me therefore have your second question. 

Faith. It is this. Do you experience the first part of Another 
this description of it ? and doth your life and conversation g^j^g "^ 
testify the same ? or standeth your Religion in Word or in 
Tongue, and not in Deed and Truth? Pray, if you in- 
cline to answer me in this, say no more than you know 
the God above will say Amen to; and also nothing but 
what your conscience can justify you in; for, not he that 
commendeth himself is approved, but whom the Lord 
commendeth. Besides, to say I am thus and thus, when 
my Conversation and all my Neighbors tell me I lye, is 
great wickedness. 

Ta/^. Then Talf^ative at first began to blush, but re- Talkative 
covering himself, thus he replied. You come now to ^'ith''*^ 
Experience, to Conscience, and God; and to appeal to Faithful's 
him for justification of what is spoken: This kind of 'i""""" 
discourse I did not expect; nor am I disposed to give an 
answer to such questions, because I count not myself 
bound thereto, unless you take upon you to be a Cate- 
chiser, and, though you should so do, yet I may refuse to 
make you my Judge. But I pray will you tell me why you 
ask me such questions? 


The reasons 
why Faith- 
ful put to 
him that 

plain dealing 

flings away 

A good 


Faith. Because I saw you forward to talk, and because 
I knew not that you had ought else but notion. Besides, 
to tell you all the truth, I have heard of you that you are 
a man whose Religion lies in talk, and that your conversa- 
tion gives this your Mouth-profession the lye. They say 
you are a sp)Ot among Christians, and that religion fareth 
the worse for your ungodly Conversation, that some have 
already stumbled at your wicked ways, and that more 
are in danger of being destroyed thereby; your Religion, 
and an Ale-house, and Covetousness, and Uncleanness, 
and Swearing and Lying, and vain Company-keeping, 
&c. will stand together. The Proverb is true of you which 
is said of a Whore, to wit. That she is a shame to all 
Women; so you are a shame to all Professors. 

Tall{. Since you are ready to take up reports, and to 
judge so rashly as you do, I cannot but conclude you are 
some peevish or melancholy man, not fit to be discoursed 
with; and so adieu. 

Chr. Then came up Christian, and said to his Brother, 
I told you how it would hapf)en; your words and his 
lusts could not agree; he had rather leave your company 
than reform his life. But he is gone, as I said; let him go, 
the loss is no man's but his own, he has saved us the 
trouble of going from him; for he continuing (as I sup- 
pose he will do) as he is, he would have been but a blot 
in our company: besides, the Apostle says, From such 
withdraw thyself. 

Faith. But I am glad we had this little discourse with 
him, it may happen that he will think of it again; how- 
ever, I have dealt plainly with him, and so am clear of his 
blood, if he perisheth. 

Chr. You did well to talk so plainly to him as you 
did. There is but little of this faithful dealing with men 
now a days, and that makes Religion to stink so in the 
nostrils of many, as it doth; for they are these Talkative 
Fools whose Religion is only in word, and are debauched 
and vain in their Conversation, that (being so much ad- 

pilgrim's prcxiress 89 

mitted into the fellowship of the godly) do puzzle the 
World, blemish Christianity, and grieve the sincere. I 
wish that all men would deal with such as you have done: 
then should they either be made more conformable to 
Religion, or the company of Saints would be too hot for 
them. Then did Faithful say, 

How Talkative at first lifts up his Plumes! 
How bravely doth he speak! How he presumes 
To drive all before him! But so soon 
As Faithful talks of Heart-wor^, like the Moon 
That's past the full, into the wane he goes. 
And so will all, but he that Heart-wor^ knows. 

Thus they went on talking of what they had seen by 
the way, and so made that way easy, which would other- 
wise, no doubt, have been tedious to them; for now they 
went through a Wilderness. 

Now when they were got almost quite out of this EvanRclist 
Wilderness, Faithful chanced to cast his eye back, and them again 
espied one coming after them, and he knew him. Oh! 
said Faithful to his Brother, Who comes yonder.^ Then 
Christian looked, and said, It is my good friend Evan- 
gelist. Ay, and my good friend too, said Faithful, for 
'twas he that set me the way to the Gate. Now was 
Evangelist come up unto them, and thus saluted them: 

Evan. Peace be with you, dearly beloved, and peace 
be to your helpers. 

Chr. Welcome, welcome, my good Evangelist, the ^''j'' "^, 
sight or thy countenance brmgs to my remembrance thy sight of him 
antient kindness and unwearied laboring for my eternal 

Faith. And a thousand times welcome, said good Faith- 
ful: Thy company, O sweet Evangelist, how desirable 
is it to us poor Pilgrims! 

Evan. Then said Evangelist, How hath it fared with 
you my friends, since the time of our last parting? What 
have you met with, and how have you behaved your- 
selves } 


Then Christian and Faithful told him of all things that 
had happened to them in the way; and how, and with 
what difficulty, they had arrived to that place. 
Hii exhorta- Evan. Right glad am 1, said Evangelist, not that you 
em j^^^^ ^^^ ^.^j^ trials, but that you have been victors; and 
that you have (notwithstanding many weaknesses) con- 
tinued in the way to this very day. 

I say, right glad am I of this thing, and that for mine 
own sake and yours: I have sowed, and you have reaped; 
and the day is coming, when both he that sowed and 
they that reaped shall rejoice together; that is, if you 
hold out: for in due time ye shall reap, if you faint not. 
The Crown is before you, and it is an incorruptible one; 
so run that you may obtain it. Some there be that set 
out for this Crown, and after they have gone far for it, 
another comes in, and takes it from them; hold fast 
therefore that you have, let no man take your Crown. 
You are not yet out of the gun-shot of the Devil; you 
have not resisted unto blood, striving against sin; let the 
Kingdom be always before you, and believe stedfastly 
concerning things that are invisible. Let nothing that is 
on this side the other world get within you; and above 
all, look well to your own hearts, and to the lusts thereof, 
for they are deceitful above all things, and desperately 
wicked; set your faces like a flint; you have all power in 
Heaven and Earth on your side. 
They do Chr. Then Christian thanked him for his exhortation, 

for"his ' but told him withal, that they would have him speak 
exhonation farther to them for their help the rest of the way, and 
the rather, for that they well knew that he was a Prophet, 
and could tell them of things that might happen unto 
them, and also how they might resist and overcome them. 
To which request Faithful also consented. So Evangelist 
began as followeth: 

Evan. My Sons, you have heard, in the words of the 
truth of the Gospel, that you must through many tribula- 
tions enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. And again, 


that in every City bonds and afflictions abide in you; He predict- 
and therefore you cannot expect that you should go long troubles 
on your Pilgrimage without them, in some sort or other. '•"^>' s*"*!' 
You have found something of the truth of these testi- ;„ Vanity 
monies upon you already, and more will immediately ^*"'' *"<! 
follow; for now, as you see, you are almost out of this them to 
Wilderness, and therefore you will soon come into a steadfastness 
Town that you will by and by see before you; and in that 
Town you will be hardly beset with enemies, who will 
strain hard but they will kill you; and be ye sure that 
one or both of you must seal the testimony which you 
hold, with blood; but be you faithful unto death, and the 
King will give you a Crown of life. He that shall die He whose 
there, although his death will be unnatural, and his pain be there to 
perhaps great, he will yet have the better of his fellow; suffer, will 
not only because he will be arrived at the CtElestial City better of his 
soonest, but because he will escape many miseries that brother 
the other will meet with in the rest of his Journey. But 
when you are come to the Town, and shall find fulfilled 
what I have here related, then remember your friend, 
and quit yourselves like men, and commit the keeping of 
your souls to your God in well-doing, as unto a faithful 

Then I saw in my Dream, that when they were got out 
of the Wilderness, they presently saw a Town before 
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 long; it beareth the name of Vanity Fair, 
because the Town where 'tis kept is lighter than Vanity; 
and also because all that is there sold, or that cometh 
thither, is Vanity. As is the saying of the wise. All that 
cometh is Vanity. 

This Fair is no new-erected busmess, but a thing of 
antient standing; I will shew you the original of it. 

Almost five thousand years agone, there were Pilgrims The an- 
walking to the Ccelestial City, as these two honest per- ,h^s"'fair° 
sons are; and Beelzebub, Apollyon, and Legion, with 


The mer- 
chandise of 
this fair 

The streets 
of this fair 

Christ went 
this fair 


their Companions, perceiving by the path that the Pil- 
grims made, that their way to the City lay through this 
Town of Vanity, they contrived here to set up a Fair; a 
Fair wherein should be sold all sorts of Vanity, and that 
it should last all the year long: therefore at this Fair are 
all such Merchandize sold, as Houses, Lands, Trades, 
Places, Honours, Preferments, Titles, Countries, King- 
doms, Lusts, Pleasures, and Delights of all sorts, as 
Whores, Bawds, Wives, Husbands, Children, Masters, 
Servants, Lives, Blood, Bodies, Souls, Silver, Gold, Pearls, 
Precious Stones, and what not? 

And moreover, at this Fair there is at all times to be 
seen Jugglings, Cheats, Games, Plays, Fools, Apes, 
Knaves, and Rogues, and that of every kind. 

Here are to be seen too, and that for nothing. Thefts, 
Murders, Adulteries, false-swearers, and that of a blood- 
red colour. 

And as in other Fairs of less moment, there are the 
several Rows and Streets under their proper names, where 
such and such Wares are vended; so here likewise you 
have the proper places. Rows, Streets, {fiz. Countries 
and Kingdoms) where the Wares of this Fair are soonest 
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 to be sold. But as in 
other Fairs, some one commodity is as the chief of all 
the Fair, so the ware of Rome and her Merchandize is 
greatly promoted in this Fair; only our English nation, 
with some ovhers, have taken a dislike thereat. 

Now, as I said, the way to the Coelestial City lies just 
through this Town where this lusty Fair is kept; and 
he that will go to the City, and yet not go through this 
Town, must needs go out of the world. The Prince of 
Princes himself, when here, went through this Town to 
his own Country, and that upon a Fair-day too; yea, and 
as I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief Lord of this Fair, 
that invited him to buy of his Vanities: yea, would have 


made him Lord of the Fair, would he but have done him 
reverence as he went through the Town. Yea, because 
he was such a person of honour, Beelzebub had him 
from Street to Street, and shewed him all the Kingdoms 
of the World in a little time, that he might, (if possible) 
allure that Blessed One to cheapen and buy some of his 
Vanities; but he had no mind to the Merchandize, and 
therefore left the Town, without laying out so much as Christ 
one Farthing upon these Vanities. This Fair therefore nothing in 
is an antient thing, of long standing, and a very great this fair 

Now these Pilgrims, as I said, must needs go through The Pil- 
this Fair. Well, so they did; but behold, even as they ^^l^i^^ 
entered into the Fair, all the people in the Fair were 
moved, and the Town itself as it were in a hubbub about The fair in 
them; and that for several reasons: for ^l^u, th^^ 

First, The Pilgrims were cloathed with such kind of 
Raiment as was diverse from the Raiment of any that 
traded in that Fair. The people therefore of the Fair The first 
made a great gazing upon them: some said they were hubbub 
Fools, some they were Bedlams, and some they are Out- 

Secondly, And as they wondered at their Apparel, so Second 
they did likewise at their Speech; for few could under- ,j,e hubbub 
stand what they said: they naturally spoke the language 
of Canaan, but they that kept the Fair were the men of 
this World; so that, from one end of the Fair to the 
other, they seemed Barbarians each to the other. 

Thirdly, But that which did not a little amuse the Third 
Merchandizers was, that these Pilgrims set very light by ,he hubbub 
all their Wares, they cared not so much as to look uf)on 
them; and if they called upon them to buy, they would 
put their fingers in their ears, and cry. Turn away mine 
eyes from beholding Vanity, and look upwards, signify- 
ing that their trade and traffick was in Heaven. 

One chanced mockingly, beholding the carriages of the Fo"f«h 
men, to say unto them, What will ye buy ? But they, look- ,he hubbub 


They are 

The fair in 
a hubbub 

They are 

They tell 
who they 
are, and 
they came 

They are 
not believed 

They are 
put in the 


ing gravely upon him, answered, We buy the Truth. At 
that there was an occasion taken to despise the men the 
more; some mocking, some taunting, some speaking re- 
proachfully, and some calling upon others to smite them. 
At last things came to a hubbub and great stir in the 
Fair, insomuch that all order was confounded. Now was 
word presently brought to the Great One of the Fair, 
who quickly came down and deputed some of his most 
trusty friends to take those men into examination, about 
whom the Fair was almost overturned. So the men were 
brought to examination; and they that sat upon them, 
asked them whence they came, whither they went, and 
what they did there in such an unusual Garb ? 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 no occasion to the men of the Town, nor yet to the 
Merchandizers, thus to abuse them, and to let them in 
their Journey, except it was for that, when one asked 
them what they would buy, they said they would buy 
the Truth. But they that were appointed to examine 
them did not believe them to be any other than Bedlams 
and Mad, or else such as came to put all things into a 
confusion in the Fair. Therefore they took them and beat 
them, and besmeared them with dirt, and then put them 
into the Cage, that they might be made a spectacle to 
all the men of the Fair. 

Behold Vanity Fair, the Pilgrims there 

Are chained and stand beside: 
Even so it was our Lord passed here, 

And on Mount Calvary died. 

There therefore they lay for some time, and were made 
the objects of any man's s(X)rt, or malice, or revenge, the 
Great One of the Fair laughing still at all that befell 
them. But the men being patient, and not rendring 
railing for raiUng, but contrariwise blessing, and giving 
good words for bad, and kindness for injuries done, some 


men in the Fair that were more observing, and less preju- Their be- 
diced than the rest, began to check and blame the baser ,hj ^^g^ 
sort for their continual abuses done by them to the men; 
they therefore in angry manner let fly at them again, The men of 
counting them as bad as the men in the Cage, and telling f^n (,„( 
them that they seemed confederates, and should be made among 
partakers of their misfortunes. The other replied, that about'the" 
for ought they could see, the men were quiet, and sober, two men 
and intended nobody any harm; and that there were 
many that traded in their Fair that were more worthy to 
be put into the Cage yea, and Pillory too, than were the 
men that they had abused. Thus, after divers words had 
passed on both sides, (the men behaving themselves all 
the while very wisely and soberly before them) they fell 
to some blows among themselves, and did harm to one 
another. Then were these two poor men brought before They are 
their examiners again, and there charged as being guilty ^^|,ors of 
of the late hubbub that had been in the Fair. So they this disturb- 
beat them pitifully and hanged irons upon them, and led '""^^ 
them in chains up and down the Fair, for an example They arc led 
and a terror to others, lest any should speak in their be- jo^n the 
half, or join themselves unto them. But Christian and fair in 
Faithful behaved themselves yet more wisely, and re- ^ ^^„o^ 
ceived the ignominy and shame that was cast upon them, to others 
with so much meekness and patience, that it won to their 
side (though but few in comparison of the rest) several Son^e of the 
of the men in the Fair. This put the other party yet into f J^ ^^^ {„ 
a greater rage, insomuch that they concluded the death of 'hpt" 
these two men. Wherefore they threatened, that the 
Cage, nor irons should serve their turn, but that they Their 
should die, for the abuse they had done, and for deluding resolve to 
the men of the Fair. kill them 

Then were they re-manded to the Cage again, until 
further order should be taken with them. So they put 
them in, and made their feet fast in the Stocks. 

Here also they called again to mind what they had 
heard from their faithful friend Evangelist, and were 


They are 
again put 
into the 
cage, and 

brought to 



the more confirmed in their way and sufferings, by what 
he told them would happen to them. They also now 
comforted each other, that whose lot it was to suffer, even 
he should have the best on't; therefore each man secretly 
wished that he might have that preferment: but com- 
mitting themselves to the All-wise dispose of Him that 
ruleth all things, with much content they abode in the 
condition in which they were, until they should be 
otherwise disposed of. 

Then a convenient time being appointed, they brought 
them forth to their Tryal, in order to their condemnation. 
When the time was come, they were brought before their 
enemies, and arraigned. The Judge's name was Lord 
Hategood. Their Indictment was one and the same in 
substance, though somewhat varying in form, the con- 
tents whereof was this: 

That they were enemies to and disturbers of their 
Trade; that they had made Commotions and Divisions 
in the Town, and had won a party to their own most 
dangerous Opinions in contempt of the Law of their 

answer for 

Now Faithful play the Man, speak for thy God: 
Fear not the wicked's malice, nor their rod: 
Speak boldly man, the Truth is on thy side; 
Die for it, and to Life in triumph ride. 

Then Faithful began to answer, that he had only set 
himself against that which had set itself against Him 
that is higher than the highest. And said he, as for Dis- 
turbance, I make none, being myself a man of Peace; 
the parties that were won to us, were won by beholding 
our Truth and Innocence, and they are only turned from 
the worse to the better. And as to the King you talk of, 
since he is Beelzebub, the enemy of Our Lord, I defy him 
and all his Angels. 

Then Proclamation was made, that they that had ought 
to say for their Lord the King against the Prisoner at the 


Bar, should forthwith appear and give in their evidence. 
So there came in three witnesses, to wit, Ent/y, Supersti- 
tion, and Pic^thanf^. They were then asked if they knew 
the Prisoner at the Bar; and what they had to say for their 
Lord the King against him. 

Then stood forth Envy, and said to this effect: My lord, Envy beginf 
I have known this man a long time, and will attest upon 
my Oath before this honourable Bench, that he is — 

Judge. Hold! Give him his Oath. 

So they sware him. Then he said. My Lord, this man, 
notwithstanding his plausible name, is one of the vilest 
men in our Country. He neither regardeth Prince nor 
People, Law nor Custom; but doth all that he can to 
possess all men with certain of his disloyal notions, which 
he in the general calls Principles of Faith and Holiness. 
And in particular, I heard him once myself affirm That 
Christianity and the Customs of our Town of Vanity 
were diametrically opposite, and could not be reconciled. 
By which saying, my Lord, he doth at once not only con- 
demn all our laudable doings, but us in the doing of 

fudge. Then did the Judge say to him, Hast thou any 
more to say? 

Envy. My Lord, I could say much more, only I would 
not be tedious to the Court. Yet if need be, when the 
other Gentlemen have given in their Evidence, rather 
than anything shall be wanting that will dispatch him, 
I will enlarge my Testimony against him. So he was bid 
stand by. 

Then they called Superstition, and bid him look upon 
the Prisoner. They also asked, what he could say for 
their Lord the King against him? Then they sware him; 
so he began : 

Super. My Lord, I have no great acquaintance with Superstition 
this man, nor do I desire to have further knowledge of 
him; however, this I know, that he is a very pestilent 
fellow, from some discourse that the other day I had with 



Sins are all 
lords, and 
great ones 

defence of 


him in this Town; for then talking with him, I heard 
him say, That our Rehgion was naught, and such by 
which a man could by no means please God. Which 
sayings of his, my Lord, your Lordship very well knows, 
what necessarily thence will follow, to wit, That we still 
do worship in vain, are yet in our sins, and finally shall 
be damned; and this is that which I have to say. 

Then was Picl{thanl{^ sworn, and bid say what he knew, 
in behalf of their Lord the King, against the Prisoner 
at the Bar. 

Picl{. My Lord, and you Gentlemen all. This fellow I 
have known of a long time, and have heard him speak 
things that ought not to be spoke; for he hath railed on 
our noble Prince Beelzebub, and hath spoken contemjv 
tibly 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, with all the rest of our 
Nobility; and he hath said moreover, That if all men 
were of his mind, if possible, there is not one of these 
Noble men should have any longer a being in this Town; 
besides, he hath not been afraid to rail on you, my Lord, 
who are now appointed to be his Judge, calling you an 
ungodly villain, with many other such-like vilifying 
terms, with which he hath bespattered most of the Gentry 
of our Town. 

When this Pic]{than\ had told his tale, the Judge di- 
rected his speech to the Prisoner at the Bar, saying. Thou 
Runagate, Heretick, and Traitor, hast thou heard what 
these honest Gentlemen have witnessed against thee? 

Faith. May I sp)eak a few words in my own defence? 

Judge. Sirrah, sirrah, thou deservedst to live no longer, 
but to be slain immediately upon the place; yet that all 
men may see our gentleness towards thee, let us see what 
thou hast to say. 

Faith. I. I say then, in answer to what Mr Envy hath 
spoken, I never said ought but this. That what Rule, or 


Laws, or Customs, or People, were flat against the Word 
of God, are diametrically opposite to Christianity. If I 
have said amiss in this, convince me of my error, and I 
am ready here before you to make my recantation. 

2. As to the second, to wit, Mr Superstition, and his 
charge against me, I said only this. That in the worship 
of God there is required a Divine Faith; but there can 
be no Divine Faith without a Divine Revelation of the 
will of God: therefore whatever is thrust into the Wor- 
ship of God that is not agreeable to Divine Revelation, 
cannot be done but by a human faith, which faith will 
not be profit to Eternal Life. 

3. As to what Mr Pic^thanl^ hath said, I say, (avoiding 
terms, as that I am said to rail, and the hke) that the 
Prince of this Town, with all the rabblement his attend- 
ants, by this Gentleman named, are more fit for a being in 
Hell, than in this Town and Country : and so, the Lord 
have mercy upon me. 

Then the Judge called to the Jury (who all this while ^^ 
stood by, to hear and observe) Gentlemen of the Jury, speech to 
you see this man about whom so great an uproar hath ^^ \^v/ 
been made in this Town: you have also heard what these 
worthy Gentlemen have witnessed against him: also you 
have heard his reply and confession : It lieth now in your 
breasts to hang him, or save his life; but yet I think meet 
to instruct you into our Law. 

There was an Act made in the days of Pharaoh the 
Great, Servant to our Prince, that lest those of a con- 
trary Religion should multiply and grow too strong for 
him, their Males 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 whoso, for some time, 
called upon any God but him, should be cast into the 
Lions' Den. Now the substance of these Laws this Rebel 


The jury, 
and their 

Every one's 



They con- 
clude to 
bring him in 
guilty of 

The cruel 
death of 


has broken, not only in thought (which is not to be 
borne) but also in word and deed; which must therefore 
needs be intolerable. 

For that of Pharaoh, his Law was made upon a supposi- 
tion, to prevent mischief, no Crime being yet apparent; 
but here is a Crime apparent. For the second and third, 
you see he disputeth against our Religion; and for the 
Treason he hath confessed, he deserveth to die the death. 

Then went the Jury out, whose names were, Mr Blind- 
man, Mr No-good, Mr Malice, Mr Love-lust, Mr Live- 
loose, Mr Heady, Mr High-mind, Mr Enmity, Mr Lyar, 
Mr Cruelty, Mr Hate-light, and Mr Implacable; who 
every one gave in his private Verdict against him among 
themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to 
bring him in guilty before the Judge. And first among 
themselves, Mr Blind-man the Foreman, said, / see 
clearly that this man is an Heretic/(^. Then said Mr No- 
good, Away with such a fellow from the earth. Ay, said 
Mr Malice, for I hate the very lookj of him. Then said 
Mr Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr 
Live-loose, for he would always be condemning my way. 
Hang him, hang him, said Mr Heady. A sorry Scrub, 
said Mr High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said 
Mr Enmity. He is a Rogue, said Mr Lyar. Hanging is 
too good for him, said Mr Cruelty. Let us dispatch him 
out of the way, said Mr Hate-light. Then said Mr Im- 
placable, Might I have all the world given me, I could 
not be reconciled to him; therefore let us forthwith bring 
him in guilty of death. And so they did; therefore he 
was presently condemned to be had from the place where 
he was, to the place from whence he came, and there to 
be put to the most cruel death that could be invented. 

They therefore brought him out, to do with him ac- 
cording to their Law; and first they Scourged him, then 
they Buffeted him, then they Lanced his flesh with 
Knives; after that they Stoned him with stones, then 
pricked him with their Swords; and last of all they 



burned him to ashes at the Stake. Thus came Faithful 
to his end. 

Now I saw that there stood behind the multitude a '^j''"'"' 
Chariot and a couple of Horses, waiting for Faithful, ^ait to take 
who (so soon as his adversaries had dispatched him) 
was taken up into it, and straitway was carried up through 
the Clouds, with sound of Trumpet, the nearest way to 
the Coelestial Gate. 

Brave Faithful, bravely done in word and deed; 
Judge, Witnesses, and Jury have, instead 
Of overcoming thee, but shewn their rage: 
When they are Dead, thou 'It Live from age to age. 

But as for Christian, he had some respite, and was 
remanded back to prison; so he there remained for a 
space: But he that over-rules all things, having the power 
of their rage in his own hand, so wrought it about, that 
Christian for that time escaped them, and went his way. 
And as he went he sang, saying, 

Well Faithful, thou hast faithfully profest 
Unto thy Lord; with whom thou shalt be blest. 
When faithless ones, with all their vain delights, 
Are crying out under their hellish plights: 
Sing, Faithful, sing, and let thy name survive; 
For though they kill'd thee, thou art yet alive. 

Christian is 
still alive 

The Song 
that Chris- 
tian made of 
after his 

has another 

Now I saw in my Dream, that Christian went not Christian 
forth alone, for there was one whose name was Hopeful, 
(being made so by the beholding of Christian and Faith- 
ful in their words and behaviour, in their sufferings at 
the Fair) who joined himself unto him, and entring into 
a brotherly covenant, told him that he would be his 
Companion. Thus one died to make Testimony to the 
Truth, and another rises out of his ashes to be a Com- There are 
panion with Christian in his Pilgrimage. This Hopeful ,„<.„ „( ,1,^ 
also told Christian, that there were many more of the F"'"' *'•• 
men in the Fair that would take their time and follow 


They over- 



loath to tell 
his name 

The wife 

and kindred 
of By-ends 


So I saw that quickly after they were got out of the 
Fair, they overtook one that was going before them, 
whose name was By-ends: so they said to him, What 
Country-man, Sir? and how far go you this way? He 
told them that he came from the Town of Fair-speech, 
and he was going to the Coelestial City, (but told them 
not his name.) 

From Fair-speech, said Christian, Is there any good 
that lives there? 

By-ends. Yes, said By-ends, I hope. 

Chr. Pray Sir, what may I call you ? 

By-ends. I am a Stranger to you, and you to me: if you 
be going this way, I shall be glad of your company; if 
not, I must be content. 

Chr. This Town of Fair-speech, said Christian, I have 
heard of it, and, as I remember, they say it's a wealthy 

By-ends. Yes, I will assure you that it is; and I have 
very many rich Kindred there. 

Chr. Pray, who are your Kindred there? if a man may 
be so bold. 

By-ends. Almost the whole Town; and in particular, 
my Lord Turn-about, my Lord Time-server, my Lord 
Fair-speech, (from whose ancestors that Town first took 
its name) also Mr Smooth-man, Mr Facing-both-ways, 
Mr Anything; and the Parson of our Parish, Mr Two- 
tongues, was my Mother's own Brother by Father's side; 
and to tell you the truth, I am become a Gentleman of 
good Quality, yet my Great Grandfather was but a 
waterman, looking one way and rowing another; and I 
got most of my estate by the same occupation. 

Chr. Are you a married man ? 

By-ends. Yes, and my Wife is a very vertuous woman, 
the Daughter of a vertuous woman; she was my Lady 
Feigning's Daughter, therefore she came of a very hon- 
ourable Family, and is arrived to such a pitch of breed- 
ing, that she knows how to carry it to all, even to Prince 


and Peasant. 'Tis true we somewhat differ in Religion Where 
from those of the stricter sort, yet but in two small diners from 
points: First, we never strive against Wind and Tide: °^^"^ "> 
Secondly, we are always most zealous when Religion 
goes in his Silver Slippers; we love much to walk with 
him in the Street, if the Sun shines, and the people 
applaud him. 

Then Christian stepped a little aside to his fellow 
Hopeful, saying. It runs in my mind that this is one By- 
ends of Fair-speech, and if it be he, we have as very a 
Knave in our company as dwelleth in all these parts. 
Then said Hopeful, Ask him; methinks he should not 
be ashamed of his name. So Christian came up with him 
again, and said. Sir, you talk as if you knew something 
more than all the world doth; and if I take not my mark 
amiss, I deem I have half a guess of you: Is not your 
name Mr By-ends of Fair-speech? 

By-ends. This is not my name, but indeed it is a nick- 
name that is given me by some that cannot abide me; 
and I must be content to bear it as a reproach, as other 
good men have borne theirs before me. 

Chr. But did you never give an occasion to men to 
call you by this name ? 

By-ends. Never, never! The worst that ever I did to How 
give them an occasion to give me this name, was, that goJ^his' 
I had always the luck to jump in my Judgment with the name 
present way of the times whatever it was, and my chance 
was to get thereby; but if things are thus cast upon me, 
let me count them a blessing, but let not the malicious 
load me therefore with reproach. 

Chr. I thought indeed that you were the man that I 
heard of, and to tell you what I think, I fear this name 
belongs to you more properly than you are willing we 
should think it doth. 

By-ends. Well, if you will thus imagine, I cannot help He desires 
it; you shall find me a fair company-keeper, if you will p^ny^with" 
still admit me your associate. Christian 


Chr. If you will go with us, you must go against Wind 
and Tide, the which, I perceive, is against your opinion; 
you must also own Religion in his Rags, as well as when 
in his Silver Slippers, and stand by him too, when bound 
in Irons, as well as when he walketh the Streets with 

By-ends. You must not impose, nor lord it over my 
Faith; leave me to my liberty, and let me go with you. 

Chr. Not a step further, unless you will do in what 
I propound, as we. 

Then said By-ends, I shall never desert my old Prin- 
ciples, since they are harmless and profitable. If I may 
not go with you, I must do as I did before you overtook 
me, even go by myself, until some overtake me that will 
be glad of my company. 
By-ends and Now I saw in my Dream that Christian and Hopeful 
forsook him, and kept their distance before him; but 
one of them looking back, saw three men following Mr 
By-ends, and behold, as they came up with him, he made 
them a very low congee, and they also gave him a corn- 
He has new pliment. The men's names were Mr Hold-the-world, Mr 
Money-love, and Mr Save-all; men that Mr By-ends had 
formerly been acquainted with; for in their minority 
they were School-fellows, and were taught by one Mr 
Gripe-man, a School-master in Love-gain, which is a Mar- 
ket-town in the County of Coveting, in the North. This 
School-master taught them the Art of Getting, either by 
violence, cousenage, flattery, lying, or by putting on a 
guise of Religion; and these four Gentlemen had attained 
much of the Art of their Master, so that they could each 
of them have kept such a School themselves. 

Well when they had, as I said, thus saluted each 

other, Mr Money-love said to Mr By-ends, Who are they 

upon the Road before us? For Christian and Hopeful 

were yet within view. 

By-ends' By-ends. They are a couple of far country-men, that 

character of , , . , ' t.i • 

the pilgrims <»/'«■ thetr modc are gomg on Pilgrimage. 



Money-love. Alas! Why did they not stay, that we 
might have had their good company? for they, and we, 
and you Sir, I hope are all going on a Pilgrimage. 

By-ends. We are so indeed; but the men before us are 
so rigid, and love so much their own notions, and do 
also so lightly esteem the opinions of others, that let a 
man be never so godly, yet if he jumps not with them 
in all things, they thrust him quite out of their company. 

Save-all. That's bad; but we read of some that are 
righteous overmuch; and such men's rigidness prevails 
with them to judge and condemn all but themselves. But 
I pray what, and how many, were the things wherein you 

By-ends. Why they after their head-strong manner, 
conclude that it is duty to rush on their Journey all 
weathers, and I am for waiting for Wind and Tide. They 
are for hazarding all for God at a clap, and I am for tak- 
ing all advantages to secure my Life and Estate. They are 
for holding their notions, though all other men are 
against them; but I am for Religion in what, and so far 
as the times and my safety will bear it. They are for 
Religion when in Rags and Contempt; but I am for 
him when he walks in his Golden Slippers in the Sun- 
shine, and with applause. 

Hold-the-world. Ay, and hold you there still, good 
Mr By-ends; for for my part I can count him but a Fool, 
that having the liberty to keep what he has, shall be so 
unwise as to lose it. Let us be wise as Serpents; 'tis best 
to make hay when the Sun shines; you see how the Bee 
lieth still all winter, and bestirs her only when she can 
have Profit with Pleasure. God sends sometimes Rain, 
and sometimes Sun-shine; if they be such fools to go 
through the first, yet let us be content to take fair weather 
along with us. For my part I like that Religion best 
that will stand with the security of God's good blessings 
unto us; for who can imagine that is ruled by his Reason, 
since God has bestowed upon us the good things of this 

io6 pilgrim's progress 

Life, but that he would have us keep them for his sake? 
Abraham and Solomon grew rich in ReUgion. And ]ob 
says, that a good man shall lay up Gold as Dust. But he 
must not be such as the men before us, if they be as you 
have described them. 

Save-all. I think that we are all agreed in this matter, 
and therefore there needs no more words about it. 

Money-love. No, there needs no more words about this 
matter indeed; for he that believes neither Scripture nor 
Reason (and you see we have both on our side) neither 
knows his own liberty, nor seeks his own safety. 

By-ends. My Brethren, we are, as you see, going all on 
Pilgrimage; and for our better diversion from things 
that are bad, give me leave to propound unto you this 
question : 

Suppose a man, a Minister, or a Tradesman, &c. 
should have an advantage lie before him to get the good 
blessings of this life, yet so as that he can by no means 
come by them, except in appearance at least, he becomes 
extraordinary zealous in some points of Religion that he 
meddled not with before; may he not use this means to 
attain his end, and yet be a right honest man? 

Money-love. I see the bottom of your question, and, 
with these Gentlemen's good leave, I will endeavour to 
shape you an answer. And first, to speak to your question 
as it concerns a Minister himself: Suppose a Minister, a 
worthy man, possess'd but of a very small benefice, and 
has in his eye a greater, more fat and plump by far; he has 
also now an opportunity of getting of it, yet so as by 
being more studious, by preaching more frequently and 
zealously, and because the temper of the people requires 
it, by altering of some of his principles; for my part I see 
no reason but a man may do this, (provided he has a 
Call) ay, and more a great deal besides, and yet be an 
honest man. For why? 

I. His desire of greater benefice is lawful (this cannot 
be contradicted since 'tis set before him by Providence) ; 


SO then he may get it if he can, making no question for 
Conscience sake. 

2. Besides, his desire after that benefice makes him 
more studious, a more zealous Preacher, &c. and so 
makes him a better man; yea makes him better improve 
his parts, which is according to the Mind of God. 

3. Now as for his complying with the temper of his 
people, by dissenting, to serve them, some of his Princi- 
ples, this argueth, i. That he is of a self-denying temper; 
2. Of a sweet and winning deportment; 3. And so more 
fit for the Ministerial function. 

4. I conclude then, that a Minister that changes a small 
for a great, should not for so doing be judged as covetous; 
but rather, since he has improved in his parts and 
industry thereby, be counted as one that pursues his Call, 
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 such 
an one to have but a poor imploy in the world, but by 
becoming Religious, he may mend his Market, perhaps 
get a rich Wife, or more and far better Customers to his 
shop; for my part I see no reason but this may be law- 
fully done. For why? 

1. To become Religious is a Virtue, by what means 
soever a man becomes so. 

2. Nor is it unlawful to get a rich Wife, or more Cus- 
tom to my Shop. 

3. Besides, the man that gets these by becoming reli- 
gious, gets that which is good of them that are good, 
by becoming good himself; so then here is a good Wife, 
and good Customers, and good Gain, and all these by 
becoming religious, which is good; therefore to become 
religious, to get all these, is a good and profitable design. 

This answer thus made by this Mr Money-love to Mr 
By-ends' question was highly applauded by them all; 
wherefore they concluded upon the whole that it was 
most wholesome and advantageous. And because, as 

io8 pilgrim's progress 

they thought, no man was able to contradict it, and 
because Christian and Hopeful were yet within call, they 
jointly agreed to assault them with the question as soon as 
they overtook them, and the rather because they had 
opposed Mr By-ends before. So they called after them, 
and they stopt, and stood still till they came up to them; 
but they concluded as they went that not Mr By-ends, but 
old Mr Hold-the-world, should propound the question 
to them, because, as they suppKJsed, their answer to him 
would be without the remainder of that heat that was 
kindled betwixt Mr By-ends and them, at their parting 
a little before. 

So they came up to each other, and after a short saluta- 
tion, Mr Hold-the-world propounded the question to 
Christian and his fellow, and bid them to answer it if 
they could. 

Chr. Then said Christian. Even a babe in Religion may 
answer ten thousand such questions. For if it be unlawful 
to follow Christ for loaves, as it is John 6. how much 
more abominable is it to make of him and Religion a 
Stalking-horse, to get and enjoy the world. Nor do we 
find any other than Heathens, Hypocrites, Devils, and 
Witches, that are of this opinion. 

1. Heathens; for when Hamor and Shechem had a 
mind to the Daughter and Cattle of Jacob, and saw that 
there was no ways for them to come at them, but by be- 
coming circumcised; they said to their companions, If 
every male of us be circumcised, as they are circumcised, 
shall not their Cattle, and their substance, and every 
beast of theirs, be ours? Their Daughter and their Cattle 
were that which they sought to obtain, and their Religion 
the Stalking-horse they made use of to come at them. 
Read the whole story, Gen. 34. 20, 21, 22, 23. 

2. The Hypocritical Pharisees were also of this Reli- 
gion; Long Prayers were their Pretence, but to get 
widows' houses was their Intent; and greater damnation 
was from God their Judgment, Lul{e 20. 46, 47. 


3. Judas the Devil was also of this Religion; he was 
religious for the Bag, that he might be possessed of what 
was therein; but he was lost, cast away, and the very son 
of Perdition. 

4. Simon the Witch was of this Religion too; for he 
would have had the Holy Ghost, that he might have got 
Money therewith, and his sentence from Peter's mouth 
was according. Acts 8. 19, 20, 21, 22. 

5. Neither will it out of my mind, but that that man 
that takes up Religion for the World, will throw away 
Religion for the World; for so surely as Judas designed 
the World in becoming religious, so surely did he also sell 
Religion and his Master for the same. To answer the 
question therefore affirmatively, as I perceive you have 
done, and to accept of as authentick such answer, is both 
Heathenish, Hypocritical, and Devilish, and your Reward 
will be according to your Works. Then they stood staring 
one upon another, but had not wherewith to answer 
Christian. Hopeful also approved of the soundness of 
Christian's answer; so there was a great Silence among 
them. Mr By-ends and his company also staggered and 
kept behind, that Christian and Hopeful might outgo 
them. Then said Christian to his fellow. If these men 
cannot stand before the sentence of men, what will they 
do with the sentence of God ? And if they are mute when 
dealt with by vessels of Clay, what will they do when they 
shall be rebuked by the flames of a devouring Fire.? 

Then Christian and Hopeful out-went them again, and The ease 
went till they came to a delicate Plain called Ease, where have^'isTut' 
they went with much content; but that Plain was but 'I'tle in this 
narrow, so they were quickly got over it. Now at the 
further side of that Plain was a little Hill called Lucre, Lucre Hill a 
and in that Hill a Siher-Mine, which some of them that jiU?^'"*" 
had formerly gone that way, because of the rarity of it, 
had turned aside to see; but going too near the brink of 
the pit, the ground being deceitful under them, broke, 
and they were slain; some also had been maimed there, 


Demas at the 
Hill Lucre. 
He calls to 
and Hopeful 
to come to 

to go, but 
holds him 

rouodeth up 


and could not to their dying day be their own men 

Then 1 saw in my Dream, that a Httle off the road, 
over against the Silver-Mine, stood Demas (gentleman- 
Hke) to call to Passengers to come and see; who said to 
Christian and his fellow, Ho, turn aside hither, and I 
will shew you a thing. 

Chr. What thing so deserving as to turn us out of the 

Demas. Here is a Silver-Mine, and some digging in it 
for Treasure. If you will come, with a little pains you 
may richly provide for yourselves. 

Hope. Then said Hopeful, Let us go see. 

Chr. Not I, said Christian; I have heard of this place 
before now, and how many have there been slain; and 
besides that Treasure is a snare to those that seek it, for it 
hindereth them in their Pilgrimage. Then Christian 
called to Demas, saying, Is not the place dangerous? Hath 
it not hindered many in their Pilgrimage? 

Demas. Not very dangerous, except to those that are 
careless: but withal, he blushed as he spake. 

Chr. Then said Christian to Hopeful, Let us not stir 
a step, but still keep on our way. 

Hope. I will warrant you, when By-ends comes up, if 
he hath the same invitation as we, he will turn in thither 
to see. 

Chr. No doubt thereof, for his Principles lead him that 
way, and a hundred to one but he dies there. 

Demas. Then Demas called again, saying, But will you 
not come over and see? 

Chr. Then Christian roundly answered, saying, Demas, 
thou art an Enemy to the right ways of the Lord of this 
way, and hast been already condemned for thine own 
turning aside, by one of his Majesties Judges; and why 
seekest thou to bring us into the like condemnation? 
Besides, if we at all turn aside, our Lord the King will 


certainly hear thereof, and will there put us to shame, 
where we would stand with boldness before him. 

Demas cried again, that he also was one of their fra- 
ternity; and that if they would tarry a little, he also him- 
self would walk with them. 

Chr. Then said Christian, What is thy name? Is it 
not the same by the which I have called thee? 

Demas. Yes, my name is Demas, I am the Son of 

Chr. I know you, Gehazi was your Great Grand- 
father, and Judas your Father, and you have trod in 
their steps. It is but a devilish prank that thou usest; thy 
Father was hanged for a Traitor, and thou deservest no 
better reward. Assure thyself, that when we come to the 
King, we will do him word of this thy behaviour. Thus 
they went their way. 

By this time By-ends and his Companions were come By-cnd$ 
again within sight, and they at the first beck went over to ^^^^^ 
Demas. Now whether they fell into the Pit by looking 
over the brink thereof, or whether they went down to dig, 
or whether they were smothered in the bottom by the 
damps that commonly arise, of these things I am not 
certain; but this I observed, that they never were seen 
again in the way. Then sang Christian, 

By-ends and Silver Demas both Agree; 
One calls, the other runs, that he may be 
A Sharer in his Lucre; so these do 
Take up in this World, and no further go. 

Now I saw, that just on the other side of this Plain, T^cy see a 
the Pilgrims came to a place where stood an old Monu- monument 
ment, hard by the High-way-side, at the sight of which 
they were both concerned, because of the strangeness of 
the form thereof; for it seemed to them as if it had been 
a Woman transformed into the shape of a Pillar; here 
therefore they stood looking and looking upon it, but 
could not for a time tell what they should make thereof. 


At last Hopeful espied written above upon the head 
thereof, a writing in an unusual hand; but he being no 
Scholar, called to Christian (for he was learned) to see if 
he could pick out the meaning; so he came, and after a 
little laying of letters together, he found the same to be 
this, Remember Lot's Wife. So he read it to his fellow; 
after which they both concluded that that was the Pillar 
of Salt into which Lot's Wife was turned, for her looking 
back with a covetous heart, when she was going from 
Sodom for safety. Which sudden and amazing sight 
gave them occasion of this discourse. 

Chr. Ah my Brother, this is a seasonable sight; it came 
opportunely to us after the invitation which Demas gave 
us to come over to view the Hill Lucre; and had we gone 
over as he desired us, and as thou wast inclining to do, 
my Brother, we had, for ought I know, been made our- 
selves like this Woman, a spectacle for those that shall 
come after to behold. 

Hope. I am sorry that I was so foolish, and am made to 
wonder that I am not now as Lot's Wife; for wherein 
was the difference 'twixt her sin and mine? she only 
looked back, and I had a desire to go see: let Grace be 
adored, and let me be ashamed that ever such a thing 
should be in mine heart. 

Chr. Let us take notice of what we see here, for our 
help for time to come: This woman escaped one Judg- 
ment, for she fell not by the destruction of Sodom; 
yet she was destroyed by another, as we see she is turned 
into a Pillar of Salt. 

Hope. True, and she may be to us both Caution and 
Example; caution, that we should shun her sin, or a 
sign of what Judgment will overtake such as shall not be 
prevented by this caution: so Korah, Dathan, and 
Abiram, with the two hundred and fifty men that 
perished in their sin, did also become a sign or example 
to others to beware. But above all, I muse at one thing, 
to wit, how Demas and his fellows can stand so confi- 


dently yonder to look for that treasure, which this 
Woman, but for looking behind her after (for we read 
not that she stept one foot out of the way) was turned 
into a pillar of salt; especially since the Judgment which 
overtook her did make her an example, within sight of 
where they are: for they cannot chuse but see her, did 
they but lift up their eyes. 

Chr. It is a thing to be wondered at, and it argueth 
that their hearts are grown desperate in the case; and I 
cannot tell who to compare them to so fitly, as to them 
that pick pockets in the presence of the Judge, or that will 
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 eye- 
sight, and notwithstanding the kindnesses that he had 
shewed them; for the land of Sodom was now, like the 
Garden of Eden heretofore. This therefore provoked him 
the more to jealousy, and made their plague as hot as the 
fire of the Lord out of Heaven could make it. And it is 
most rationally to be concluded, that such, even such as 
these are, that shall sin in the sight, yea, and that too in 
despite of such examples that are set continually before 
them, to caution them to the contrary, must be partakers 
of severest Judgments. 

Hope. Doubtless thou hast said the truth; but what a 
mercy is it, that neither thou, but especially I, am not 
made myself this example: this ministreth occasion to us 
to thank God, to fear before him, and always to remem- 
ber Lot's Wife. 

I saw then that they went on their way to a pleasant A river 
River, which David the King called the River of God, 
but John, the River of the Water of Life. Now their way 
lay just upon the bank of the River; here therefore 
Christian and his Companion walked with great delight; 
they drank also of the water of the River, which was 
pleasant and enlivening to their weary spirits: besides, on 
the banks of this River on either side were green Trees, 


Trees by the 
river. The 
fruit and 
leaves of the 

A meadow 
in which 
they lie 
down to 


One tempta- 
tion does 
make way 
for another 


that bore all manner of Fruit; and the Leaves of the 
Trees were good for Medicine; with the Fruit of these 
Trees they were also much delighted; and the Leaves 
they ate to prevent Surfeits, and other Diseases that are 
incident to those that heat their blood by Travels. On 
either side of the River was also a Meadow, curiously 
beautiful with Lilies; and it was green all the year long. 
In this Meadow they lay down and slept, for here they 
might lie down safely. When they awoke they gath- 
ered again of the Fruit of the Trees, and drank again 
of the water of the River, and then lay down again 
to sleep. Thus they did several days and nights. Then 
they sang. 

Behold ye how these Cristal streams do glide, 
(To comfort Pilgrims) by the High-way side; 
The Meadows green, beside their fragrant smell. 
Yield dainties for them: And he that can tell 
What pleasant fruit; yea Leaves, these Trees do yield. 
Will soon sell all, that he may buy this field. 

So when they were disposed to go on (for they were not 
as yet at their Journey's end) they eat and drank, and 

Now I beheld in my Dream, that they had not jour- 
neyed far, but the River and the way for a time parted; 
at which they were not a little sorry, yet they durst not 
go out of the way. Now the way from the River was 
rough, and their feet tender by reason of their travels; 
so the soul of the Pilgrims was much discouraged because 
of the way. Wherefore still as they went on, they wished 
for better way. Now a little before them, there was on 
the left hand of the road a Meadow, and a Stile to go over 
into it, and that Meadow is called By-path-Meadow. 
Then said Christian to his fellow, If this Meadow lieth 
along by our way-side, let's go over into it. Then he 
went to the Stile to see, and behold a Path lay along by 
the way on the other side of the fence. 'Tis according to 


my wish, said Christian, here is the easiest going; come 
good Hopeful, and let us go over. 

Hope. But how if this Path should lead us out of the 

Chr. That's not like, said the other; look, doth it not Stronfr 
go along by the way-side ? So Hopeful, being persuaded ^^y \^^^ 
by his fellow, went after him over the Stile. When they «'<=»'' °ne$ 
were gone over, and were got into the Path, they found „j,y 
it very easy for their feet: and withal, they looking before 
them, espied a man walking as they did, (and his name 
was Vain-confidence) so they called after him, and asked 
him whither that way led? He said, To the Ccelestial 
Gate. Look, said Christian, did I not tell you so? by this See what it 
you may see we are right. So they followed, and he went suddenly to 
before them. But behold the night came on, and it grew f»" "> "•'I' 
very dark, so that they that were behind lost the sight of 
him that went before. 

He therefore that went before {Vain-confidence by A pit to 
name) not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep vainglorious 
Pit, which was on purpose there made by the Prince of in 
those grounds, to catch vain-glorious fools withal, and 
was dashed in pieces with his fall. 

Now Christian and his fellow heard him fall. So they Reasoning 
called to know the matter, but there was none to answer, christian 
only they heard a groaning. Then said Hopeful, Where and Hopeftil 
are we now? Then was his fellow silent, as mistrusting 
that he had led him out of the way; and now it began to 
rain, and thunder, and lighten in a very dreadful manner, 
and the water rose amain. 

Then Hopeful groaned in himself, saying. Oh that I 
had ^ept on my way! 

Chr. Who could have thought that this Path should 
have led us out of the way ? 

Hope. I was afraid on't at the very first, and therefore 
gave you that gentle caution. I would have spoken 
plainer, but that you are older than I. 


for leading 
of his 

brother out 
of the way 

They are in 
danger of 
drowning as 
they go back 

They sleep 
in the 
grounds of 

He finds 
them in his 
and carries 
them to 


Chr. Good Brother be not offended; I am sorry I 
have brought thee out of the way, and that I have put 
thee into such imminent danger; pray my Brother for- 
give me, I did not do it of an evil intent. 

Hope. Be comforted my brother, for I forgive thee; 
and beUeve too that this shall be for our good. 

Chr. I am glad I have with me a merciful Brother; 
but we must not stand thus, let's try to go back again. 

Hope. But good Brother let me go before. 

Chr. No, if you please let me go first, that if there be 
any danger, I may be first therein, because by my means 
we are both gone out of the way. 

Hope. No, said Hopeful, you shall not go first; for 
your mind being troubled may lead you out of the way 
again. Then for their encouragement, they heard the 
voice of one saying Let thine heart be towards the High- 
way, even the way that thou wentest, turn again. But by 
this time the waters were greatly risen; by reason of 
which the way of going back was very dangerous. 
(Then I thought that it is easier going out of the way 
when we are in, than going in when we are out.) Yet 
they adventured to go back; but it was so dark, and the 
flood was so high, that in their going back they had like 
to have been drowned nine or ten times. 

Neither could they, with all the skill they had, get 
again to the Stile that night. Wherefore at last, lighting 
under a little shelter, they sat down there till the day 
brake; but being weary, they fell asleep. Now there was 
not far from the place where they lay, a Castle called 
Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, 
and it was in his grounds they were now sleeping: 
wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and 
walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian 
and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then with a grim 
and surly voice he bid them awake, and asked them 
whence they were? and what they did in his grounds? 
They told him they were Pilgrims, and that they had lost 


their way. Then said the Giant, You have this night 
trespassed on me, by trampling in and lying on my 
grounds, and therefore you must go along with me. 
So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than 
they. They also had but little to say, for they knew 
themselves in a fault. The Giant therefore drove them 
before him, and put them into his Castle, into a very dark fhe Krie»- 

•^ .... , . . , , ousness of 

Dungeon, nasty and stinkmg to the spirits or these two ^^g^f ;„,- 
men. Here then they lay from Wednesday morning till prisonment 
Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of 
drink, or light, or any to ask how they did; they were 
therefore here in evil case, and were far from friends and 
acquaintance. Now in this place Christian had double 
sorrow, because 'twas through his unadvised haste that 
they were brought into this distress. 

The Pilgrims now, to gratify the Flesh, 
Will seek its Ease; but oh! how they afresh 
Do thereby plunge themselves new Griefs into! 
Who seek to please the flesh themselves undo. 

Now Giant Despair had a Wife, and her name was ^n Thurs- 
Diffidence. So when he was gone to bed, he told his Wife Dcpajr 
what he had done, to wit, that he had taken a couple ^?«» •>" 
of Prisoners and cast them into his Dungeon, for tres- 
passing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what he 
had best do further to them. So she asked him what they 
were, whence they came, and whither they were bound; 
and he told her. Then .she counselled him that when he 
arose in the morning he should beat them without any 
mercy. So when he arose he getteth him a grievous Crab- 
tree Cudgel, and goes down into the Dungeon to them, 
and there first falls to rating of them, as if they were 
dogs, although they gave him never a word of distaste. 
Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in 
such sort, that they were not able to help themselves, or to 
turn them upon the floor. This done, he withdraws and 
leaves them, there to condole their misery, and to mourn 
under their distress: so all that day they spent the time 


On Friday, 




them to kill 


The Giant 
has fits 




in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next 
night she talking with her Husband about them further, 
and understanding that they were yet alive, did advise 
him to counsel them to make away themselves. So when 
morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner as 
before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the 
stripes that he had given them the day before, he told 
them, that since they were never like to come out of 
that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an 
end of themselves, either with Knife, Halter, or Poison; 
For why, said he, should you chuse life, seeing it is 
attended with so much bitterness? But they desired him 
to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them, and 
rushing to them had doubtless made an end of them 
himself, but that he fell into one of his Fits, (for he some- 
times in Sun-shine weather fell into Fits) and lost for a 
time the use of his hand; wherefore he withdrew, and 
left them as before, to consider what to do. Then did the 
Prisoners consult between themselves, whether 'twas 
best to take his counsel or no; and thus they began to 

Chr. Brother, said Christian, what shall we do? The 
life that we now live is miserable: for my part I know not 
whether is best, to live thus, or to die out of hand. My 
soul chuseth strangling rather than life, and the Grave 
is more easy for me than this Dungeon. Shall we be ruled 
by the Giant ? 

Hope. Indeed our present condition is dreadful, and 
death would be far more welcome to me than thus for 
ever to abide; but yet let us consider, the Lord of the 
Country to which we are going hath said. Thou shalt do 
no murder, no not to another man's person; much more 
than are we forbidden to take his counsel to kill our- 
selves. Besides, he that kills another can but commit 
murder upon his body; but for one to kill himself is to 
kill body and soul at once. And moreover, my Brother, 
thou talkest of ease in the Grave; but hast thou forgotten 


the Hell, whither for certain the murderers go? For no 
murderer hath eternal life, &c. And let us consider 
again, that all the Law is not in the hand of Giant De- 
spair. Others, so far as I can understand, have been taken 
by him as well as we, and yet have escaped out of his 
hand. Who knows but that God that made the world 
may cause that Giant Despair may die ? or that at some 
time or other he may forget to lock us in? or but he may 
in short time have another of his Fits before us, and may 
lose the use of his limbs ? and if ever that should come to 
pass again, for my part I am resolved to pluck up the heart 
of a man, and to try my utmost to get from under his 
hand. I was a fool that I did not try to do it before; but 
however, my Brother, let's be patient, and endure a while; 
the time may come that may give us a happy release; but 
let us not be our own murderers. With these words 
Hopeful at present did moderate the mind of his Brother; 
so they continued together (in the dark) that day, in their 
sad and doleful condition. 

Well, towards evening the Giant goes down into the 
Dungeon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his 
counsel; but when he came there he found them alive, 
and truly, ahve was all; for now, what for want of Bread 
and Water, and by reason of the Wounds they received 
when he beat them, they could do little but breathe: But, 
I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous 
rage, and told them that seeing they disobeyed his counsel, 
it should be worse with them than if they had never been 

At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian Christian 
fell into a Swoon; but coming a little to himself again, dejected 
they renewed their discourse about the Giant's counsel, 
and whether yet they had best to take it or no. Now 
Christian again seemed to be for doing it, but Hopejul 
made his second reply as foUoweth: 

Hope. My Brother, said he, rememberest thou not how 
valiant thou hast been heretofore? Apollyon could not 


him ainiin, 
by calling 
things to 

On Saturday, 
the Giant 

(bortly he 
would pull 
them in 


crush thee, nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or 
feel in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. What hard- 
ship, terror, and amazement hast thou already gone 
through, and art thou now nothing but fear ? Thou seest 
that I am in the Dungeon with thee, a far weaker man 
by nature than thou art; also this Giant has wounded me 
as well as thee, and hath also cut off the Bread and Water 
from my mouth; and with thee I mourn without the 
light. But let's exercise a little more patience, remember 
how thou playedst the man at Vanity Fair, and wast 
neither afraid of the Chain, nor Cage, nor yet of bloody 
Death: wherefore let us (at least to avoid the shame, that 
becomes not a Christian to be found in) bear up with 
patience as well as we can. 

Now night being come again, and the Giant and his 
Wife being in bed, she asked him concerning the Pris- 
oners, and if they had taken his counsel: To which he 
replied. They are sturdy Rogues, they chuse rather to 
bear all hardship, than to make away themselves. Then 
said she. Take them into the Castle-yard to-morrow, and 
shew them the Bones and Skulls of those that thou hast 
already dispatch'd, and make them believe, e'er a week 
comes to an end, thou also wilt tear them in pieces, as 
thou hast done their fellows before them. 

So when the morning was come, the Giant goes to them 
again, and takes them into the Castle-yard and shews 
them as his Wife had bidden him. These, said he, were 
Pilgrims as you are, once, and they trespassed in my 
grounds, as you have done; and when I thought fit, I 
tore them in pieces, and so within ten days I will do you. 
Go get you down to your Den again; and with that he 
beat them all the way thither. They lay therefore all day 
on Saturday in a lamentable case, as before. Now when 
night was come, and when Mrs Diffidence and her Hus- 
band the Giant were got to bed, they began to renew 
their discourse of their Prisoners; and withal the old 
Giant wondered, that he could neither by his blows nor 

opens any 


counsel bring them to an end. And with that his Wife 
replied, 1 fear, said she, that they live in hope that some 
will come to relieve them, or that they have pick-locks 
about them, by the means of which they hope to escape. 
And sayest thou so, my dear ? said the Giant, I will there- 
fore search them in the morning. 

Well on Saturday about midnight they began to pray, 
and continued in Prayer till almost break of day. 

Now a little before it was day, good Christian, as one A key in 
half amazed, brake out in passionate speech : What a fool, ^^^^ 
quoth he, am I, thus to lie in a stin/^ing Dungeon, when called 
/ may as well waH{^ at liberty. I have a Key in my bosom 
called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any Lock lock in 
in Doubting Castle. Then said Hopeful, That's good ci"Jie"°* 
news; good Brother pluck it out of thy bosom and try. 

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began 
to try at the Dungeon door, whose bolt (as he turned the 
Key) gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and 
Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to 
the outward door that leads into the Castle-yard, and with 
his Key opened that door also. After he went to the iron 
Gate, for that must be opened too, but that Lock went 
damnable hard, yet the Key did open it. Then they thrust 
open the Gate to make their escape with speed; but that 
Gate as it opened made such a creaking, that it waked 
Giant Despair, who hastily rising to pursue his Prisoners, 
felt his limbs to fail, for his Fits took him again, so that 
he could by no means go after them. Then they went on, 
and came to the King's High-way again, and so were 
safe, because they were out of his j urisdiction. 

Now when they were gone over the Stile, they began A pillar 
to contrive with themselves what they should do at that chrLtian'' 
Siile, to prevent those that should come after from fall- and •»» 
ing into the hands of Giant Despair. So they consented 
to erect there a Pillar, and to engrave upon the side 
thereof this sentence, Ot/er this Stile is the way to Doubt- 
ing Castle, which is {ept by Giant Despair, who despiseth 






They are 
refreshed in 

Talk with 




the King of the Cotlestial Country, and seef^s to destroy 
his holy Pilgrims. Many therefore that followed after 
read what was written, and escaped the danger. This 
done, they sang as follows: 

Out of the way we went, and then we found 

What 'twas to tread upon forbidden ground; 

And let them that come after have a care, 

Lest heedlessness makes them, as we, to fare. 

Lest they for tresjMssing his prisoners are, 

Whose CasUe's Doubting, and whose name's Despair. 

They went then till they came to the Delectable Moun- 
tains, which Mountains belong to the Lord of that Hill 
of which we have spoken before; so they went up to the 
Mountains, to behold the Gardens and Orchards, the 
Vineyards and Fountains of water; where also they drank, 
and washed themselves, and did freely eat of the Vine- 
yards. Now there were on the tops of these Mountains 
Shepherds feeding their flocks, and they stood by the 
High-way side. The Pilgrims therefore went to them, 
and leaning upon their staves (as is common with weary 
Pilgrims, when they stand to talk with any by the way) 
they asked. Whose Delectable Mountains are these? And 
whose be the sheep that feed upon them? 

Mountains Delectable they now ascend. 
Where Shepherds be, which to them do commend 
Alluring things, and things that Cautious are, 
Pilgrims are steady kept by Faith and Fear. 

Shep. These mountains are ImmanueFs Land, and 
they are within sight of his City; and the sheep also are 
his, and he laid down his life for them. 

Chr. Is this the way to the Coclestial City ? 

Shep. You are just in your way. 

Chr. How far is it thither.? 

Shep. Too far for any but those that shall get thither 

Chr. Is the way safe or dangerous.? 



Shep. Safe for those for whom it is to be safe, but 
transgressors shall fall therein. 

Chr. Is there in this place any reHef for Pilgrims that 
are weary and faint in the way? 

Shep. The Lord of these Mountains hath given us a 
charge not to be forgotten to entertain strangers; there- 
fore the good of the place is before you. 

I saw also in my Dream, that when the Shepherds The 
perceived that they were way-faring men, they also put ^^Jco^e* 
questions to them (to which they made answer as in them 
other places) as, Whence came you? and, How got you 
into the way? and, By what means have you so persevered 
therein? For but few of them that begin to come hither 
do shew their face on these Mountains. But when the 
Shepherds heard their answers, being pleased therewith, 
they looked very lovingly upon them, and said. Welcome 
to the Delectable Mountains. 

The Shepherds, I say, whose names were Knowledge, The names 
Experience, Watchful, and Sincere, took them by the shepherds 
hand, and had them to their Tents, and made them par- 
take of that which was ready at present. They said more- 
over. We would that ye should stay here a while, to be 
acquainted with us; and yet more to solace yourselves 
with the good of these Delectable Mountains. They then 
told them, that they were content to stay; and so they 
went to their rest that night, because it was very late. 

Then I saw in my Dream, that in the morning the Thc>- are 
Shepherds called up Christian and Hopeful to walk with wonders 
them upon the Mountains; so they went forth with them. The Moun- 
and walked a while, having a pleasant prospect on every g^^j 
side. Then said the Shepherds one to another. Shall we 
shew these Pilgrims some wonders? So when they had 
concluded to do it, they had them first to the top of a Hill 
called Error, which was very steep on the furthest side, 
and bid them look down to the bottom. So Christian and 
Hopeful looked down, and saw at the bottom several 
men dashed all to pieces by a fall, that they had from 


the top. Then said Christian, What meaneth this? The 
Shepherds answered, Have you not heard of them that 
were made to err, by hearkening to Hymeneus and Phi- 
letus, as concerning the Faith of the Resurrection of the 
Body? They answered, Yes. Then said the Shepherds, 
Those that you see He dashed in pieces at the bottom of 
this Mountain are they; and they have continued to this 
day unburied (as you see) for an example to others to take 
heed how they clamber too high, or how they come too 
near the brink of this Mountain. 
Mount Then I saw that they had them to the top of another 

Mountain, and the name of that is Caution, and bid them 
look afar off; which when they did, they perceived, as 
they thought, several men walking up and down among 
the Tombs that were there; and they perceived that the 
men were blind, because they stumbled sometimes upon 
the Tombs, and because they could not get out from 
among them. Then said Christian, What means this? 

The Shepherds then answered. Did you not see a little 
below these Mountains a Stile, that led into a Meadow, 
on the left hand of this way? They answered. Yes. Then 
said the Shepherds, From that Stile there goes a path that 
leads directly to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant 
Despair; and these men (pointing to them among the 
Tombs) came once on Pilgrimage, as you do now, even 
till they came to that same Stile; and because the right 
way was rough in that place, they chose to go out of it into 
that Meadow, and there were taken by Giant Despair, 
and cast into Doubting Castle; where, after they had been 
awhile kept in the Dungeon, he at last did put out their 
eyes, and led them among those Tombs, where he has 
left them to wander to this very day, that the saying of the 
Wise Man might be fulfilled. He that wandereth out of 
the way of understanding, shall remain in the congrega- 
tion of the dead. Then Christian and Hopeful looked 
upon one another, with tears gushing out, but yet said 
nothing to the Shepherds. 

pilgrim's prcxjress 125 

Then I saw in my Dream, that the Shepherds had them A '>y-w»y 
to another place, in a bottom, where was a door in the 
side of a Hill, and they opened the door, and bid them 
look in. They looked in therefore, and saw that within 
it was very dark and smoky; they also thought that they 
heard there a rumbling noise as of Fire, and a cry of some 
tormented, and that they smelt the scent of Brimstone. 
Then said Christian, What means this? The Shepherds 
told them. This is a by-way to Hell, a way that Hypocrites 
go in at; namely, such as sell their Birth-right, with Esau; 
such as sell their Master, as Judas; such as blaspheme the 
Gospel, with Alexander ; and that lie and dissemble, with 
Ananias and Sapphira his Wife. Then said Hopeful to 
the Shepherds, I perceive that these had on them, even 
everyone, a shew of Pilgrimage, as we have now; had 
they not? 

Shep. Yes, and held it a long time too. 

Hope. How far might they go on in Pilgrimage in 
their day, since they notwithstanding were thus miserably 
cast away? 

Shep. Some further, and some not so far as these Moun- 

Then said the Pilgrims one to another. We had need 
to cry to the Strong for strength. 

Shep. Ay, and you will have need to use it when you 
have it too. 

By this time the Pilgrims had a desire to go forwards, "^^ 
and the Shepherds a desire they should; so they walked penpcctive 
together towards the end of the Mountains. Then said s'*" 
the Shepherds one to another, Let us here shew to the 
Pilgrims the Gates of the Ccelestial City, if they have 
skill to look through our Perspective-Glass. The Pilgrims The Hill 
then lovingly accepted the motion; so they had them to 
the top of a high Hill, called Clear, and gave them their 
Glass to look. 

Then they assayed to look, but the remembrance of The fruits 
that last thing that the Shepherds had shewed them, "eaT"'* 


A twofold 

The country 
of Conceit, 
out of which 

and Igno- 
rance have 
some talk 

The ground 
of Igno- 
rance's hope 


made their hands shake, by means of which impediment 
they could not look steadily through the Glass; yet they 
thought they saw something like the Gate, and also some 
of the Glory of the place. 
Then they went away and sang this song, 

Thus by the Shepherds Secrets are reveal'd: 
Which from all other men are kept conceal'd 
Come to the Shepherds then if you would see 
Things deep, things hid, and that mysterious be. 

When they were about to depart, one of the Shepherds 
gave them a Note of the way. Another of them bid them 
beware of the Flatterer. The third bid them tal{e heed 
that they sleep not on the Inchanted Ground. And the 
fourth bid them Godspeed. So I awoke from my Dream. 

And I slept, and Dreamed again, and saw the same two 
Pilgrims going down the Mountains along the High- 
way towards the City. Now a little below these Moun- 
tains, on the left hand lieth the Country of Conceit; 
from which Country there comes into the way in which 
the Pilgrims walked, a little crooked Lane. Here therefore 
they met with a very brisk Lad, that came out of that 
Country; and his name was Ignorance. So Christian 
asked him From what parts he came, and whither he was 

Ignor. Sir, I was born in the Country that lieth off there 
a little on the left hand, and I am going to the Calestial 

Chr. But how do you think to get in at the Gate, for 
you may find some difficulty there .^ 

Ignor. As other good people do, said he. 

Chr. But what have you to shew at that Gate, that 
may cause that the Gate should be opened to you? 

Ignor. 1 know my Lord's will, and I have been a good 
liver; I pay every man his own; I Pray, Fast, pay Tithes, 
and give Alms, and have left my Country for whither 
I am going. 


Chr. But thou earnest not in at the Wicket-Gate that 
is at the head of this way; thou earnest in hither through 
that same crooked Lane, and therefore I fear, how- 
ever thou mayest think of thyself, when the reckon- 
ing day shall come, thou wilt have laid to thy charge that 
thou art a Thief and a Robber, instead of getting admit- 
tance into the City. 

Ignor. Gentlemen, ye be utter strangers to me, I know H« ""h •» 
you not; be content to follow the Religion of your Coun- ,hat he u a 
try, and I will follow the Religion of mine, I hope all will f°°' 
be well. And as for the Gate that you talk of, all the 
world knows that that is a great way off of our Country. 
I cannot think that any man in all our parts doth so much 
as know the way to it, nor need they matter whether they 
do or no, since we have, as you see, a fine pleasant Green 
Lane, that comes down from our Country the next way 
into the way. 

When Christian saw that the man was wise in his ^"^ 5" 
own conceit, he said to Hopeful whisperingly. There is fool 
more hopes of a fool than of him. And said moreover, 
When he that is a fool wal/^eth by the way, his wisdom 
faileth him, and he saith to every one that he is a fool. 
What, shall we talk further with him, or outgo him at 
present, and so leave him to think of what he hath heard 
already, and then stop again for him afterwards, and see 
if by degrees we can do any good of him? Then said 

Let Ignorance a little while now muse 
On what is said, and let him not refuse 
Good counsel to imbrace, lest he remain 
Still ignorant of what's the chiefest gain. 
God saith, Those that no understanding have, 
(Although he made them) them he will not save. 

Hope. He further added. It is not good, I think, to say 
all to him at once; let us pass him by, if you will, and talk 
to him anon, even as he is able to bear it. 


The de- 


telleth his 
a story of 


Dead Man's 

robbed by 
heart, Mis- 
trust, and 


So they both went on, and Ignorance he came after. 
Now when they had passed him a little way, they entered 
into a very dark Lane, where they met a man whom seven 
Devils had bound with seven strong cords, and were 
carrying of him back to the Door that they saw on the 
side of the Hill. Now good Christian began to tremble, 
and so did Hopeful his Companion; yet as the Devils led 
away the man, Christian looked to see if he knew him, 
and he thought it might be one Turn-away that dwelt in 
the Town of Apostacy. But he did not perfectly see his 
face, for he did hang his head like a Thief that is found. 
But being gone past. Hopeful looked after him, and espied 
on his back a paper with this inscription. Wanton Pro- 
fessor and damnable Apostate. Then said Christian to 
his fellow. Now I call to remembrance that which was 
told me of a thing that happened to a good man here- 
about. The name of the man was Little-faith, but a good 
man, and he dwelt in the Town of Sincere. The thing 
was this; At the entering in of 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 do now, chanced to sit down there and slept. Now 
there happened at that time, to come down the Lane 
from Broad-way Gate, three sturdy Rogues, and their 
names were Faint-heart, Mistrust, and Guilt, (three 
Brothers) and they espying Little-faith where he was, 
came galloping up with speed. Now the good man was 
just awaked from his sleep, and was getting up to go on 
his Journey. So they came up all to him, and with 
threatning language bid him stand. At this Little-faith 
looked as white as a Clout, and had neither power to fight 
nor fly. Then said Faint-heart, Deliver thy Purse. But 
he making no haste to do it (for he was loth to lose his 
Money) Mistrust ran up to him, and thrusting his hand 
into his Pocket, pull'd out thence a bag of silver. Then 
he cried out, Thieves, Thieves. With that Guilt with a 


great Club that was in his hand, struck Little-faith on the They got 
head, and with that blow fell'd him flat to the ground, *]^er, and 
where he lay bleeding as one that would bleed to death, knocked 
All this while the Thieves stood by. But at last, they 
hearing that some were upon the road, and fearing lest 
it should be one Great-grace that dwells in the City o£ 
Good-confidence, they betook themselves to their heels, 
and left this good man to shift for himself. Now after a 
while Little-faith came to himself, and getting up made 
shift to scrabble on his way. This was the story. 

Hope. But did they take from him all that ever he had? 

Chr, No; the place where his Jewels were they never Little-faith 
ransacked, so those he kept still; but as I was told, the test things 
good man was much afflicted for his loss, for the Thieves 
got most of his spending Money. That which they got not 
(as I said) were Jewels, also he had a little odd Money 
left, but scarce enough to bring him to his Journey's end; 
nay, if I was not misinformed, he was forced to beg as he Little-faith 
went, to keep himself alive, for his Jewels he might not ^^ ,g ^^ 
sell. But beg, and do what he could, he went (as we say) journey's 
u/ith many a hungry belly the most part of the rest of the '" 

Hope. But is it not a wonder that they got from him 
his Certificate, by which he was to receive his admittance 
at the Coelestial Gate? 

Chr. 'Tis a wonder but they got not that, though they He kept not 
missed it not through any good cunning of his; for he things 'by 
being dismayed with their coming upon him, had neither his own 
power nor skill to hide anything; so 'twas more by good ("""Ti^ L 
Providence than by his endeavour, that they miss'd of 14) 
that good thing. 

Hope. But it must needs be a comfort to him that they 
got not this Jewel from him. 

Chr. It might have been great comfort to him, had he 
used it as he should; but they that told me the story said 
that he made but little use of it all the rest of the way, 
and that because of the dismay that he had in their taking 


He is pitied 
by both 



his fellow 





away his Money; indeed he forgot it a great part of the 
rest of his Journey; and besides, when at any time it came 
into his mind, and he began to be comforted therewith, 
then would fresh thoughts of his loss come again upon 
him, and those thoughts would swallow up all. 

Hope. Alas poor man! This could not but be a great 
grief to him. 

Chr. Grief! ay, a grief indeed. Would it not have been 
so to any of us, had we been used as he, to be robbed, 
and wounded too, and that in a strange place, as he was? 
'Tis a wonder he did not die with grief, poor heart! I 
was told that he scattered almost all the rest of the way 
with nothing but doleful and bitter complaints; telling 
also to all that over-took him, or that he over-took in the 
way as he went, where he was robbed, and how; who 
they were that did it, and what he lost; how he was 
wounded, and that he hardly escaped with his Ufe. 

Hope. But 'tis a wonder that his necessity did not 
put him upon selling or pawning some of his Jewels, 
that he might have wherewith to relieve himself in his 

Chr. Thou talkest like one uf)on whose head is the 
Shell to this very day; for what should he pawn them, 
or to whom should he sell them? In all that Country 
where he was robbed, his Jewels were not accounted of; 
nor did he want that relief which could from thence be 
administered to him. Besides, had his Jewels been missing 
at the Gate of the Ccelestial City, he had (and that he 
knew well enough) been excluded from an Inheritance 
there; and that would have been worse to him than the 
appearance and villany of ten thousand Thieves. 

Hope. Why art thou so tart my Brother? Esau sold 
his Birth-right, and that for a mess of Pottage, and that 
Birth-right was his greatest Jewel; and if he, why might 
not Little- jaith do so too ? 

Chr. Esau did sell his Birth-right indeed, and so do 
many besides, and by so doing exclude themselves from 


the chief blessing, as also that caitiff did; but you must put Adiscourse 
a difference betwixt Esau and Little-jaith, and also be- ^nd Little- 
twixt their Estates. Esau's Birth-right was typical, but ^^'^ 
Little-faith's Jewels were not so: Esau's belly was his god, 
but Little-faith's belly was not so: Esau's want lay in his Esau was 
fleshly appetite, Little-faith's did not so. Besides, Esau ju, imtl 
could see no further than to the fulfilling of his lusts: 
For I am at the point to die, said he, and what good will 
this Birth-right do me? But Little-faith, though it was 
his lot to have but a little faith, was by his little faith 
kept from such extravagancies, and made to see and prize 
his Jewels more than to sell them, as Esau did his Birth- 
right. You read not anywhere that Esau had faith, no not ?* j"f"^u" 
so much as a little; therefore no marvel if where the flesh 
only bears sway (as it will in that man where no faith is 
to resist) if he sells his Birth-right, and his Soul and all, 
and that to the Devil of Hell; for it is with such, as it is 
with the Ass, who in her occasions cannot be turned away. 
When their minds are set upon their lusts, they will have 
them whatever they cost. But Little-faith was of another 
temper, his mind was on things Divine; his livelihood 
was upon things that were Spiritual, and from above; Lmlc-faith 
therefore to what end should he that is of such a temper Uve upon 
sell his Jewels (had there been any that would have Esaus 
bought them) to fill his mind with empty things? Will a 
man give a penny to fill his belly with Hay ? or can you 
persuade the Turtle-dove to live upon Carrion like the 
Crow? Though faithless ones can, for carnal Lusts, pawn ^ compan- 
or mortgage, or sell what they have, and themselves out- twccn the 
right to boot; yet they that have faith, saving faith, turt'e-dove 
though but a little of it, cannot do so. Here therefore crow 
my Brother is thy mistake. 

Hope. I acknowledge it; but yet your severe reflection 
had almost made me angry. 

Chr. Why, I did but compare thee to some of the Birds 
that are of the brisker sort, who will run to and fro in 
trodden paths, with the Shell upon their heads; but pass 



No great 
heart for 
God, where 
there is but 
little faith 

We have 
more cour- 
age when 
out, than 
when in the 

tells bis own 
in this case 

The King's 


by that, and consider the matter under debate, and all 
shall be well betwixt thee and me. 

Hope. But Christian, these three fellows, I am per- 
suaded in my heart, are but a company of Cowards; 
would they have run else, think you, as they did, at the 
noise of one that was coming on the road ? Why did not 
Little-faith pluck up a greater heart? He might, me- 
thinks, have stood one brush with them, and have yielded 
when there had been no remedy. 

Chr. That they are Cowards, many have said, but few 
have found it so in the time of Trial. As for a great 
heart. Little- faith had none; and I perceive by thee, my 
Brother, hadst thou been the man concerned, thou art 
but for a brush, and then to yield. And verily since this 
is the height of thy stomach, now they are at a distance 
from us, should they appear to thee as they did to him, 
they might put thee to second thoughts. 

But consider again, they are but journeymen Thieves; 
they serve under the King of the bottomless Pit, who, if 
need be, will come in to their aid himself, and his voice 
is as the roaring of a Lion. I myself have been engaged 
as this Little-faith was, and I found it a terrible thing. 
These three Villains set upon me, and I beginning like a 
Christian to resist, they gave but a call, and in came their 
Master: I would, as the saying is, have given my life for 
a penny; but that, as God would have it, I was cloathed 
with Armor of proof. Ay, and yet though I was so 
harnessed, I found it hard work to quit myself like a 
man: no man can tell what in that Combat attends us, 
but he that hath been in the Battle himself. 

Hope. Well, but they ran, you see, when they did but 
supfK)se that one Great-grace was in the way. 

Chr. True, they have often fled, both they and their 
Master, when Great-grace hath but appeared; and no 
marvel, for he is the King's Champion. But I tro you 
will put some difference between Little-faith and the 
King's Champion. All the King's Subjects are not his 


Champions, nor can they when tried do such feats of 
War as he. Is it meet to think that a little child should 
handle Goliah 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, some have little: this 
man was one of the weak, and therefore he went to the 

Hope. I would it had been Great-grace for their sakes. 

Chr. If it had been he, he might have had his hands 
full; for I must tell you, that though Great-grace is excel- 
lent good at his Weapons, and has, and can, so long as he 
keeps them at Sword's point, do well enough with them; 
yet if they get within him, even Faint-heart, Mistrust, 
or the other, it shall go hard but they will throw up his 
heels. And when a man is down, you know, what can he 

Whoso looks well upon Great-grace's face, shall see 
those scars and cuts there, that shall easily give demonstra- 
tion of what I say. Yea, once I heard he should say, (and 
that when he was in the Combat) We despaired even of 
life. How did these sturdy Rogues and their fellows make 
David groan, mourn, and roar? Yet, Heman and Heze- 
l{iah too, though Champions in their day, were forced to 
bestir them when by these assaulted; and yet notwith- 
standing they had their Coats soundly brushed by them. 
Peter upon a time would go try what he could do; but 
though some do say of him that he is the Prince of the 
Af)osdes, they handled him so, that they made him at last 
afraid of a sorry Girl. 

Besides their King is at their whistle. He is never out Leviathan'i 
r I ■ 1 ./- 'II I sturdmess 

or hearmg; and 11 at any time they be put to the worst, 

he if possible comes in to help them; and of him it is said, 

The Sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold, the 

Spear, the Dart, nor the Habergeon: he esteemeth Iron 

as Straw, and Brass as rotten Wood. The Arrow cannot 

mahj: him fiy; Sling-stones are turned with him into 

Stubble, Darts are counted as Stubble: he laugheth at the 


shal{ing of a Spear. What can a man do in this case? 

Tis true, if a man could at every turn have Job's Horse, 

and had skill and courage to ride him, he might do 

The excel- notable things; for his Nec/(^ is cloathed with Thunder, 

that ^"^1"' ^<^ ^'^^ "0/ be afraid as the Grasshopper, the glory of his 

lob's horse Nostrils is terrible, he paweth in the Valley, rejoiceth in 

his strength, and goeth out to meet the armed men. He 

moc^eth at fear, and is not affrighted, neither turneth 

bac/^ from the Sword. The Quiver rattleth against him, 

the glittering Spear, and the Shield. He swalloweth the 

ground with fierceness and rage, neither believeth he that 

it is the sound of the Trumpet. He saith among the 

Trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the Battle afar off, 

the thundering of the Captains, and the Shoutings. 

But for such footmen as thee and I are, let us never 
desire to meet with an enemy, nor vaunt as if we could 
do better, when we hear of others that they have been 
foiled, nor be tickled at the thoughts of our own man- 
hood; for such commonly come by the worst when tried. 
Witness Peter, of whom I made mention before. He 
would swagger, ay he would; he would, as his vain mind 
prompted him to say, do better, and stand more for his 
Master than all men; but who so foiled and run down 
by these Villains as he? 

When therefore we hear that such Robberies are done 
on the King's High-way, two things become us to do: 
First, To go out harnessed and to be sure to take a 
Shield with us; for it was for want of that, that he that 
laid so lustily at Leviathan could not make him yield; 
for indeed if that be wanting he fears us not at all. There- 
fore he that had skill hath said. Above all take the Shield 
of Faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the 
fiery darts of the wicked. 
It is good to Tis good also that we desire of the King a Convoy, 
convoy Y^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^'^1 S" ^'^^ "s himself. This made David 

rejoice when in the Valley of the Shadow of Death: 
and Moses was rather for dying where he stood, than to 


go one step without his God. O my Brother, if he will but 
go along with us, what need we be afraid of ten 
thousands that shall set themselves against us ? But with- 
out him, the proud helpers jail under the slain. 

I for my part have been in the fray before now, and 
though (through the goodness of him that is best) I am, 
as you see, alive; yet I cannot boast of my manhood. Glad 
shall I be, if I meet with no more such brunts, though 
I fear we are not got beyond all danger. However, since 
the Lion and the Bear have not as yet devoured me, I 
hope God will also deliver us from the next uncircum- 
cised Philistine. Then sang Christian, 

Poor Little-faithI Hast been among the Thieves? 
Wast robb'd? Remember this: Whoso believes 
And gets more Faith, shall then a victor be 
Over ten thousand, else scarce over three. 

So they went on, and Ignorance followed. They went A way, and 

then till they came at a place where they saw a way put * "*'' 

itself into their way, and seemed withal to lie as straight 

as the way which they should go: and here they knew 

not which of the two to take, for both seemed straight 

before them; therefore here they stood still to consider. 

And as they were thinking about the way, behold a man 

black of flesh, but covered with a very light Robe, came 

to them, and asked them why they stood there? They The flatterer 

answered they were going to the Ccelestial City, but knew 

not which of these ways to take. Follow me, said the 

man, it is thither that I am going. So they followed him 

in the way that but now came into the road, which by Christian 

degrees turned, and turned them so from the City that fdiow 

they desired to go to, that in little time their faces were deluded 

turned away from it: yet they followed him. But by-and- 

by, before they were aware, he led them both within the 

compass of a Net, in which they were both so intangled. They are 

that they knew not what to do; and with that the white „gt 

Robe jell off the blac\ man's bac/(^: then they saw where 


They bewail 



A Shininf; 
One comes 
to them 
with a whip 
in his hand 

They are 
and con- 
victed of 

fine spoken 


they were. Wherefore there they lay crying some time, 
for they could not get themselves out. 

Chr. Then said Christian to his fellow, Now do I see 
myself in an error. Did not the Shepherds bid us beware 
of the flatterers? As is the saying of the Wise man, so 
we have found it this day, A man that flattereth his 
Neighbour, spreadeth a Net for his feet. 

Hope. They also gave us a Note of directions about 
the way, for our more sure finding thereof; but therein we 
have also forgotten to read, and have not kept ourselves 
from the paths of the destroyer. Here David was wiser 
than we; for saith he. Concerning the tvorl^s of men, by 
the word of thy lips I have f{ept me from the paths of the 
destroyer. Thus they lay bewailing themselves in the Net. 
At last they espied a Shining One coming towards them 
with a Whip of small cord in his hand. When he was 
come to the place where they were, he asked them whence 
they came? and what they did there? They told him 
that they were poor Pilgrims going to Sion, but were led 
out of their way by a black man, cloathed in white, who 
bid us, said they, follow him, for he was going thither too. 
Then said he with the Whip, It is Flatterer, a false 
Apostle, that hath transformed himself into an Angel of 
Light. So he rent the Net, and let the men out. Then 
said he to them. Follow me, that I may set you in your 
way again: so he led them back to the way which they 
had left to follow the Flatterer. Then he asked them, 
saying, Where did you lie the last night? They said, 
With the Shepherds up)on the Delectable Mountains. He 
asked them then, If they had not of those Shepherds a 
Note of direction for the way? They answered. Yes. But 
did you, said he, when you were at a stand pluck out and 
read your Note? They answered, No. He asked them, 
Why ? They said they forgot. He asked moreover. If the 
Shepherds did not bid them beware of the Flatterer? 
They answered, Yes; but we did not imagine, said they, 
that this fine-spo\en man had been he. 


Then I saw in my Dream, that he commanded them to They are 
lie down; which when they did, he chastised them sore, ^^^ ^„^ ^g 
to teach them the good way wherein they should walk; 'heir way 
and as he chastised them he said, As many as I love, I 
rebul{e and chasten; be zealous therefore, and repent. 
This done, he bid them go on their way, and take good 
heed to the other directions of the Shepherds. So they 
thanked him for all his kindness, and went softly along 
the right way, singing, 

Come hither, you that walk along the way. 
See how the Pilgrims fare that go astray; 
They catched are in an intangling Net, 
'Cause they good Counsel lightly did forget; 
'Tis true they rescu'd were, but yet you see 
They're scourg'd to boot: Let this your caution be. 

Now after a while, they perceived afar off one coming 
softly and alone all along the High-way to meet them. 
Then said Christian to his fellow. Yonder is a man with 
his back toward Sion, and he is coming to meet us. 

Hope. I see him, let us take heed to ourselves now, lest The Atheist 
he should prove a Flatterer also. So he drew nearer and 
nearer, and at last came up unto them. His name was 
Atheist, and he asked them whither they were going. 

Chr. We are going to the Mount Sion. 

Then Atheist fell into a very great Laughter. He laughs at 

Chr. What is the meaning of your Laughter? 

Atheist. I laugh to see what ignorant persons you are, 
to take upon you so tedious a Journey, and you are like 
to have nothing but your travel for your pains. 

Chr. Why man? Do you think we shall not be re- They reason 
ceived? '°«"'*'" 

Atheist. Received! There is no such place as you dream 
of in all this World. 

Chr. But there is in the World to come. 

Atheist. When I was at home in mine own Country, 
I heard as you now affirm, and from that hearing went 
out to see, and have been seeking this City this t\ 

138 pilgrim's progress 

years; but find no more of it than I did the first day I set 


Chr. We have both heard and believe that there is such 

a place to be found. 

The Atheist Atheist. Had not I when at home believed, I had not 

content 'in " come thus far to seek; but finding none, (and yet I 

this world should, had there been such a place to be found, for I 

have gone to seek it further than you) I am going back 

again, and will seek to refresh myself with the things that 

I then cast away, for hopes of that which I now see is not 

Christian Chr. Then said Christian to Hopeful his fellow, Is it 

brother " ^"^"^ which this man hath said? 

Hope. Take heed, he is one of the Flatterers; remember 

Hopeful's what it hath cost us once already for our hearkening to 

answer' ^"'-^ '^''^^ °^ fellows. What! no Mount Sion? Did we 

not see from the Delectable Mountains the Gate of the 

A reraem- City? Also, are we not now to walk by Faith. Let us 

formed ° 8° °"' ^^'^ Hopeful, lest the man with the Whip overtake 

chastise- us again. You should have taught me that lesson, which I 

hclp'^gainst ^^''^ round you in the ears withal: Cease, my Son, to hear 

present the instruction that causeth to err from the tvords of 

tempuuons f^nowledge. I say my Brother, cease to hear him, and let 

us believe to the saving of the Soul. 

A fruit of ao Chr. My Brother, I did not put the question to thee for 

Ijggjj that I doubted of the Truth of our belief myself, but to 

prove thee, and to fetch from thee a fruit of the honesty 

of thy heart. As for this man, I know that he is blinded 

by the god of this World. Let thee and I go on, knowing 

that we have belief of the Truth, and no lie is of the 


Hope. Now do I rejoice in hof)e of the glory of God. 

So they turned away from the man; and he laughing at 

them went his way. 

They are \ saw then in my Dream, that they went till they come 

come to the . • /-. 1 • n j j 

Enchanted "^to ^ certam Country, whose air naturally tended to 

Ground make one drowsy, if he came a stranger into it. And here 

Hopeful began to be very dull and heavy of sleep; where- 


begins to be 

keeps him 


fore he said unto Christian, I do now begin to grow so 
drowsy that I can scarcely hold up mine eyes, let us lie 
down here and take one nap. 

Chr. By no means, said the other, lest sleeping we never 
awake more. 

Hope. Why my Brother ? Sleep is sweet to the labour- 
ing man; we may be refreshed ii we take a nap. 

Chr. Do you not remember that one of the Shepherds 
bid us beware of the Inchanted Ground? He meant by 
that, that we should beware of sleeping; wherefore let 
us not sleep as do others, but let us watch and be sober. 

Hope. 1 acknowledge myself in a fault, and had I been 
here alone I had by sleeping run the danger of death. 
I see it is true that the Wise man saith, Two are better 
than one. Hitherto hath thy company been my mercy, 
and thou shah have a good reward for thy labour. 

Now then, said Christian, to prevent drowsiness in this 
place, let us fall into good discourse. 

Hope. With all my heart, said the other. 

Chr. Where shall we begin? 

Hope. Where God began with us. But do you begin, 
if you please. 

Chr. I will sing you first this song: 

When Saints do sleepy grow, let them come hither. 
And hear how these two Pilgrims talk together: 
Yea, let them learn of them in any wise, 
Thus to keep ope their drowsy, slumbring eyes. 
Saints' fellowship, if it be managed well. 
Keeps them awake, and that in spite of Hell. 

Chr. Then Christian began and said, I will ask you They begin 
a question : How came you to think at first of doing as n^^g „( their 
you do now? 

Hope. Do you mean, how came I at first to look after 
the good of my soul? 

Chr. Yes, that is my meaning. 

Hope. I continued a great while in the delight of those 
things which were seen and sold at our Fair; things 

He is 

To prevent 
they fall to 


The dream- 
er's note 



life before 

Hopeful at 
first shuts 
his eyes 
against the 

Reasons of 
his resisting 
•f the light 


which I believe now would have (had I continued in 
them still) drowned me in perdition and destruction. 

Chr. What things were they? 

Hope. All the Treasures and Riches of the World. 
Also I delighted much in Rioting, Revelling, Drinking, 
Swearing, Lying, Uncleanness, Sabbath-breaking, and 
what not, that tended to destroy the Soul. But I found at 
last, by hearing and considering of things that are Divine, 
which indeed I heard of you, as also of beloved Faithful, 
that was put to death for his faith and good living in 
Vanity Fair, That the end of these things is death. And 
that for these things' sake the wrath of God cometh upon 
the children of disobedience. 

Chr. And did you presently fall under the power of 
this conviction? 

Hope. No, I was not willing presently to know the 
evil of sin, nor the damnation that follows upon the 
commission of it; but endeavoured, when my mind at 
first began to be shaken with the Word, to shut mine eyes 
against the light thereof. 

Chr. But what was the cause of your carrying of it 
thus to the first workings of God's blessed Spirit upon 

Hope. The causes were, i. I was ignorant that this 
was the work of God upon me. I never thought that by 
awakenings for sin God at first begins the conversion of 
a sinner. 2. Sin was yet very sweet to my flesh, and I was 
loth to leave it. 3. I could not tell how to part with mine 
old Companions, their presence and actions were so de- 
sirable unto me. 4. The hours in which convictions were 
upon me, were such troublesome and such heart-affright- 
ing hours, that I could not bear, no not so much as the 
remembrance of them upon my heart. 

Chr. Then as it seems, sometimes you got rid of your 

Hope. Yes verily, but it would come into my mind 


again, and then I should be as bad, nay worse, than I 
was before. 
Chr. Why, what was it that brought your sins to mind ^hen he 

again. jenje of jin^ 

Hope. Many things; as what 

1. If I did but meet a good man in the Streets; or, ag^ 

2. If I have heard any read in the Bible; or, 

3. If mine Head did begin to ake; or, 

4. If I were told that some of my Neighbors were sick; 

5. If I heard the Bell toll for some that were dead; 

6. If I thought of Dying myself; or, 

7. If I heard that sudden Death happened to others; 

8. But especially, when I thought of myself, that I must 
quickly come to Judgment. 

Chr. And could you at any time with ease get off the 
guilt of sin, when by any of these ways it came upon 

Hope. No, not latterly, for then they got faster hold 
of my conscience; and then, if I did but think of going 
back to sin, (though my mind was turned against it) 
it would be double torment to me. 

Chr. And how did you do then? 

Hope. I thought I must endeavour to mend my life; when he 
for else, thought I, I am sure to be damned. longer shake 

Chr. And did you endeavour to mend? of his guilt 

Hope. Yes, and fled from not only my sins, but sinful courl^,"then 
Gsmpany too; and betook me to religious duties, as he en- 
Prayer, Reading, Weeping for Sin, speaking Truth to my ^^^j 
Neighbors, &c. These things did I, with many others, too 
much here to relate. 

Chr. And did you think yourself well then? 

Hope. Yes, for a while; but at the last my trouble came TT>cn he 
tumbling upon me again, and that over the neck of all my him«lf well 


Chr. How came that about, since you were now re- 
formed ? 
Reformation Hope. There were several things brought it upon me, 
could not esf)ecially such sayings as these: All our righteousnesses 
help, and are as filthy rags. By the tvorl{^s of the Lmiv no man shall 
be justified. When you have done all things, say. We are 
unprofitable: with many more such Uke. From whence 
I began to reason with myself thus: If all my righteous- 
nesses are filthy rags, if by the deeds of the Law, no man 
can be justified; and if, when we have done all, we are 
yet unprofitable, then 'tis but a folly to think of Heaven 
by the Law. I further thought thus: If a man runs lool. 
His being a into the Shop-keeper's debt, and after that shall pay 
the law for 3II that he shall fetch; yet his old debt stands still 
troubled Jn the Book uncrossed, for the which the Shop-keeper 
may sue him, and cast him into Prison till he shall pay 
the debt. 

Chr. Well, and how did you apply this to yourself? 
Hope. Why, I thought thus with myself: I have by my 
sins run a great way into God's Book, and that my now 
reforming will not pay off that score; therefore I should 
think still under all my present amendments. But how 
shall I be freed from that damnation that I have brought 
myself in danger of by my former transgressions.'' 
Chr. A very good application : but pray go on. 
Hope. Another thing that hath troubled me, even since 
His espying my late amendments, is, that if I look narrowly into the 
in his"'^t ^^^ of what I do now, I still see sin, new sin, mixing 
duties itself with the best of that I do; so that now I am forced 

lu^ to conclude, that notwithstanding my former fond con- 

ceits of myself and duties, I have committed sin enough 
in one duty to send me to Hell, though my former life had 
This made been faultless, 
his mind to ^^'"' ^"^ what did you do then ? 
Faithful, Hope. Do! I could not tell what to do, till I brake my 

him the way "^'1^ to Faithful, for he and I were well acquainted. And 
to be saved he told me, that unless I could obtain the righteousness of 


a man that never had sinned, neither mine own, nor all 
the righteousness of the world could save me. 

Chr. And did you think he spake true? 

Hope. Had he told me so when I was pleased and 
satisfied with mine own amendments, I had called him 
Fool for his pains: but now, since I see mine own infirm- 
ity, and the sin that cleaves to my best performance, I 
have been forced to be of his opinion. 

Chr. But did you think, when at first he suggested it 
to you, that there was such a man to be found, of whom 
it might justly be said, That he never committed sin? 

Hope. I must confess the words at first sounded 
strangely; but after a little more talk and company with 
him, I had full conviction about it. 

Chr. And did you ask him what man this was, and 
how you must be justified by him? 

Hope. Yes, and he told me it was the Lord Jesus, that 
dwelleth on the right hand of the Most High. And thus, 
said he, you must be justified by him, even by trusting 
to what he hath done by himself in the days of his flesh, 
and suffered when he did hang on the Tree. I asked him 
further. How that man's righteousness could be of that 
efficacy to justify another before God? And he told me 
he was the mighty God, and did what he did, and died 
the death also, not for himself, but for me; to whom his 
doings, and the worthiness of them should be imputed, if 
I believed on him. 

Chr. And what did you do then? 

Hope. I made my objections against my believing, for 
that I thought he was not willing to save me. 

Chr. And what said Faithful to you then ? 

Hope. He bid me go to him and see: then I said it was 
presumption: but he said, No, for I was invited to come. 
Then he gave me a Book of Jesus his inditing, to encour- 
age me the more freely to come; and he said concerning 
that Book, that every jot and tittle thereof stood firmer 
than Heaven and Earth. Then I asked him. What I 


At which he 
started at 

A more 
discover)' of 
the way to 
be saved 

He doubts 
of accepta- 

He is better 


He is bid to 


He prays 

He thought 
to leave off 

He durst 
not leave 
off praying, 
and why 


must do when I came? and he told me, I must entreat 
upon my knees with all my heart and soul, the Father to 
reveal him to me. Then I asked him further. How I 
must make my suppHcation to him? And he said. Go, 
and thou shalt find him upon a mercy-seat, where he sits 
all the year long, to give pardon and forgiveness to them 
that come. I told him that I knew not what to say when 
I came. And he bid me say to this effect : God be merciful 
to me a sinner, and ma/^e me to l^noiv and believe in 
Jesus Christ; for I see that if his righteousness had not 
been, or 1 have not faith in that righteousness, I am 
utterly cast away: Lord, I have heard that thou art a 
merciful God, and hast ordained that thy Son Jesus 
Christ should be the Saviour of the world; and moreover, 
that thou art willing to bestow him upon such a poor 
sinner as I am, {and I am a sinner indeed^ Lord, ta/(e 
therefore this opportunity, and magnify thy grace in the 
Salvation of my soul, through thy Son Jesus Christ. 

Chr. And did you do as you were bidden? 

Hope. Yes, over and over and over. 

Chr. And did the Father reveal his Son to you? 

Hope. Not at the first, nor second, nor third, nor 
fourth, nor fifth, no nor at the sixth time neither. 

Chr. What did you do then? 

Hope. What! why I could not tell what to do. 

Chr. Had you not thought of leaving off praying? 

Hope. Yes, an hundred times twice told. 

Chr. And what was the reason you did not? 

Hope. I believed that that was true which had been 
told me, to wit, that without the righteousness of this 
Christ all the world could not save me; and therefore 
thought I with myself. If I leave off, I die, and can but 
die at the Throne of Grace. And withal, this came into 
my mind, // it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely 
come, it will not tarry. So I continued praying until the 
Father shewed me his Son. 

pilgrim's progress 145 

Chr. And how was he revealed unto you ? 

Hope. I did not see him with my bodily eyes, but Christ jj 
with the eyes of mine understanding; and thus it was: ,0 him. 
One day I was very sad, I think sadder than at any one >°<1 •><"* 
time in my life, and this sadness was through a fresh 
sight of the greatness and vileness of my sins: and as I 
was then looking for nothing but Hell, and the everlast- 
ing damnation of my Soul, suddenly, as I thought, I saw 
the Lord Jesus look down from Heaven upon me, and 
saying, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt 
be saved. 

But I replied. Lord, I am a great, a very great sinner. 
And he answered My grace is sufficient for thee. Then I 
said, But Lord, what is believing? And then I saw from 
that saying, He that cometh to me shall never hunger, 
and he that helieveth on me shall never thirst, that believ- 
ing and coming was all one; and that he that came, that, 
is, ran out in his heart and affections after salvation by 
Christ, he indeed believed in Christ. Then the water 
stood in mine eyes, and I asked further. But Lord, may 
such a great sinner as I am be indeed accepted of thee, and 
be saved by thee? And I heard him say. And him that 
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. Then I said, 
But how. Lord, must I consider of thee in my coming to 
thee, that my faith may be placed aright uf)on thee ? Then 
he said, Christ Jesus came into the World to save sinners. 
He is the end of the Law for righteousness to every one 
that 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 Mediator between God and 
us. He ever liveth to mal{e intercession for us. From all 
which I gathered, that I must look for Righteousness in 
his Person, and for Satisfaction for my Sins by his Blood; 
that what he did in obedience to his Father's Law, and in 
submitting to the p)enalty thereof, was not for himself, 
but for him that will accept it for his Salvation, and be 
thankful. And now was my heart full of joy, mine eyes 


comes up 
their ulk 


full of tears, and mine affections running over with love 
to the Name, People, and Ways of Jesus Christ. 

Chr. This was a revelation of Christ to your soul in- 
deed; but tell me particularly what effect this had upon 
your spirit. 

Hope. It made me see that all the World, notwith- 
standing all the righteousness thereof, is in a state of con- 
demnation. It made me see that God the Father, though 
he be just, can justly justify the coming sinner. It made 
me greatly ashamed of the vileness of my former life, and 
confounded me with the sense of mine own ignorance; 
for there never came thought into my heart before now, 
that shewed me so the beauty of Jesus Christ. It made 
me love a holy life, and long to do something for the 
Honour and Glory of the Name of the Lord Jesus; yea, 
I thought that had I now a thousand gallons of blood 
in my body, I could spill it all for the sake of the Lord 

I saw then in my Dream that Hopeful looked back and 
saw Ignorance, whom they had left behind, coming after. 
Look, said he to Christian, how far yonder youngster 
loitereth behind. 

Chr. Ay, ay, I see him; he careth not for our company. 

Hope. But I tro it would not have hurt him, had he 
kept pace with us hitherto. 

Chr. That's true, but I warrant you he thinketh other- 

Hope. That I think he doth, but however let us tarry 
for him. So they did. 

Then Christian said to him. Come away man, why do 
you stay so behind ? 

Ignor. I take my pleasure in walking alone, even more 
a great deal than in Company, unless I like it the better. 

Then said Christian to Hopeful (but softly) Did I not 
tell you he cared not for our company? But however, 
said he, come up, and let us talk away the time in this 
solitary place. Then directing his speech to Ignorance, he 

of it 


said, Come, how do you? How stands it between God 

and your Soul now? 

Ignor. 1 hope well; for I am always full of good Ik"°- 
1 . • J f T ranee's 

motions, that come mto my mmd to comtort me as I hope, and 

walk. the ground 

Chr. What good motions? pray tell us. 

Ignor. Why, I think of God and Heaven. 

Chr. So do the Devils and damned Souls. 

Ignor. But I think of them and desire them. 

Chr. So do many that are never like to come there. 
The Soul of the Sluggard desires, and hath nothing. 

Ignor. But I think of them, and leave all for them. 

Chr. That I doubt, for leaving all is an hard matter, 
yea a harder matter than many are aware of. But why, 
or by what, art thou persuaded that thou hast left all for 
God and Heaven? 

Ignor. My heart tells me so. 

Chr. The wise man says. He that trusts his own heart 
is a fool. 

Ignor. This is spoken of an evil heart, but mine is a 
good one. 

Chr. But how dost thou prove that ? 

Ignor. It comforts me in hopes of Heaven. 

Chr. That may be through its deceitfulness, for a 
man's heart may minister comfort to him in the hopes of 
that thing for which he yet has no ground to hope. 

Ignor. But my heart and life agree together, and there- 
fore my hop)e is well grounded. 

Chr. Who told thee that thy heart and life agree to- 

Ignor. My heart tells me so. 

Chr. Ask my fellow if I be a Thief! Thy heart tells 
thee so! Except the Word of God beareth witness in this 
matter, other testimony is of no value. 

Ignor. But is it not a good heart that has good 
thoughts? and is not that a good life that is according to 
God's Commandments? 

148 pilgrim's progress 

Chr. Yes, that is a good heart that hath good thoughts, 
and that is a good Ufe that is according to God's Com- 
mandments; but it is one thing indeed to have these, 
and another thing only to think so. 

Ignor. Pray, what count you good thoughts, and a hfe 
according to God's Commandments? 

Chr. There are good thoughts of divers kinds, some 
respecting ourselves, some God, some Christ, some other 
What are Ignor. What be good thoughts respecting ourselves? 
Smigha ^^'"* Such as agree with the Word of God. 

Ignor. When do our thoughts of ourselves agree with 
the Word of God? 

Chr. When we pass the same Judgment upon our- 
selves which the Word passes. To explain myself, the 
Word of God saith of persons in a natural condition. 
There is none righteous, there is none that doth good. 
It saith also, That every imagination of the heart of man 
is only evil, and that continually. And again. The imagi- 
nation of man's heart is evil from his youth. Now then, 
when we think thus of ourselves, having sense thereof, 
then are our thoughts good ones, because according to the 
Word of God. 

Ignor. I will never believe that my heart is thus bad. 

Chr. Therefore thou never hadst one good thought 
concerning thyself in thy life. But let me go on: As the 
Word passeth a Judgment upon our Heart, so it passeth 
a Judgment upon our Ways; and when our thoughts of 
our Hearts and Ways agree with the Judgment which 
the Word giveth of both, then are both good, because 
agreeing thereto. 

Ignor. Make out your meaning. 

Chr. Why, the Word of God saith that man's ways 
are crooked ways, not good, but perverse. It saith they 
are naturally out of the good way, that they have not 
known it. Now when a man thus thinketh of his ways, 
I say, when he doth sensibly, and with heart-humiliation 


thus think, then hath he good thoughts of his own ways, 
because his thoughts now agree with the Judgment of 
the Word of God. 

Ignor. What are good thoughts concerning God? 

Chr. Even as I have said concerning ourselves, when 
our thoughts of God do agree with what the Word saiih 
of him; and that is, when we think of his Being and 
Attributes as the Word hath taught, of which I cannot 
now discourse at large: but to speak of him with refer- 
ence to us, then 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 he knows our inmost 
thoughts, and that our heart with ail its depths is always 
of)en unto his eyes; also when we think that all our 
Righteousness stinks in his nostrils, and that therefore he 
cannot abide to see us stand before him in any confidence, 
even in all our best performances. 

Ignor. Do you think that I am such a fool as to think 
God can see no further than I? or that I would come 
to God in the best of my jjerformances ? 

Chr. Why, how dost thou think in this matter? 

Ignor. Why, to be short, I think I must believe in 
Christ for Justification. 

Chr. How! think thou must believe in Christ, when 
thou seest not thy need of him! Thou neither seest thy 
original or actual infirmities; but hast such an opinion 
of thyself, and of what thou doest, as plainly renders 
thee to be one that did never see a necessity of Christ's 
personal righteousness to justify thee before God. How 
then dost thou say I believe in Christ ? 

Ignor. I believe well enough for all that. 

Chr. How dost thou believe? 

Ignor. I believe that Christ died for sinners, and that The 
I shall be justified before God from the curse, through jgnoraice 
his gracious acceptance of my obedience to his Law. Or 
thus, Christ makes my Duties that are religious, acceptable 


to his Father by virtue of his Merits; and so shall I be 

Chr. Let me give an answer to this Confession of thy 

1. Thou believest with a fantastical Faith, for this 
Faith is nowhere described in the Word. 

2. Thou believest with a false Faith, because it taketh 
Justification from the {personal righteousness of Christ, 
and appUes it to thy own. 

3. This Faith maketh not Christ a Justifier of thy per- 
son, but of thy actions; and of thy person for thy actions' 
sake, which is false. 

4. Therefore this Faith is deceitful, even such as will 
leave thee under wrath in the day of God Almighty; for 
true Justifying Faith puts the soul (as sensible of its lost 
condition by the Law) upon flying for refuge unto 
Christ's righteousness, (which righteousness of his is not 
an act of grace, by which he maketh for Justification thy 
obedience accepted by God; but his personal obedience 
to the Law, in doing and suffering for us what that re- 
quired at our hands.) This righteousness, I say, true 
Faith accepteth; under the skirt of which the soul being 
shrouded, and by it presented as spotless before God, it is 
accepted, and acquit from condemnation. 

Ignor. What! would you have us trust to what Christ 
in his own person has done without us? This conceit 
would loosen the reins of our lust, and tolerate us to 
live as we list. For what matter how we live, if we may 
be Justified by Christ's personal righteousness from all, 
when we believe it ? 

Chr. Ignorance is thy name, and as thy name is, so art 
thou; even this thy answer demonstrateth what I say. 
Ignorant thou art of what Justifying Righteousness is, 
and as ignorant how to secure thy Soul through the Faith 
of it from the heavy wrath of God. Yea, thou also art 
ignorant of the true effects of saving Faith in this Right- 
eousness of Christ, which is to bow and win over the 


heart to God in Christ, to love his Name, his Word, Ways, 
and People, and not as thou ignorantly imaginest. 

Hope. Ask him if ever he had Christ revealed to him 
from Heaven. 

Ignor. What! you are a man for revelations! I believe 
that what both you, and all the rest of you, say about that 
matter, is but the fruit of distracted brains. 

Hope. Why man! Christ is so hid in God from the 
natural apprehensions of all flesh, that he cannot by any 
man be savingly known, unless God the Father reveals 
him to them. 

Ignor. That is your Faith, but not mine; yet mine I 
doubt not is as good as yours, though I have not in my 
head so many whimsies as you. 

Chr. Give me leave to put in a word: You ought not 
so slightly to speak of this matter: for this I will boldly 
affirm (even as my good Companion hath done) that 
no man can know Jesus Christ but by the revelation of 
the Father; yea, and Faith too, by which the soul layeth 
hold upon Christ, (if it be right) must be wrought by the 
exceeding greatness of his mighty power; the working 
of which Faith, I perceive, poor Ignorance, thou art 
ignorant of. 

Be awakened then, see thine own wretchedness, and 
fly to the Lord Jesus; and by his righteousness, which is 
the righteousness of God, (for he himself is God) thou 
shalt be delivered from condemnation. 

Ignor. You go so fast I cannot keep pace with you, do 
you go on before, I must stay a while behind. 

Then they said. 

Well Ignorance, wilt thou yet foolish be. 
To slight good Counsel, ten times given thee? 
And if thou yet refuse it, thou shalt know 
E're long the evil of thy doing so: 
Remember, man, in time; stoop, do not fear. 
Good Counsel taken well, saves; therefore hear: 
But if thou yet shall slight it, thou wilt be 
The loser. Ignorance, I'll warrant thee. 


with them 

He speaks 

fully of 
what he 
knows not 

The talk 
broke up 


Then Christian addressed thus himself to his fellow. 

Chr. Well, come my good Hopeful, I perceive that 
thou and I must walk by ourselves again. 

So I saw in my Dream that they went on apace before, 
and Ignorance he came hobbling after. Then said Chris- 
tian to his Companion, It pities me much for this poor 
man, it will certainly go ill with him at last. 

Hope. Alas, there are abundance in our Town in his 
condition, whole families, yea, whole Streets, and that 
of Pilgrims too; and if there be so many in our parts, 
how many think you, must there be in the place where 
he was born ? 

Chr. Indeed the Word saith. He hath blinded their 
eyes, lest they should see, &c. But now we are by our- 
selves, what do you think of such men? Have they at no 
time, think you, convictions of sin, and so consequently 
fears that their state is dangerous? 

Hope. Nay, do you answer that question yourself, for 
you are the elder man. 
The good Chr. Then I say, sometimes (as I think) they may, but 

they being naturally ignorant, understand not that such 
convictions tend to their good; and therefore they do 
desperately seek to stifle them, and presumptuously con- 
tinue to flatter themselves in the way of their own hearts. 

Hope. I do believe, as you say, that fear tends much 
to men's good, and to make them right at their beginning 
to go on Pilgrimage. 

Chr. Without all doubt it doth, if it be right; for so 
says the Word, The fear of the Lord is the beginning of 
Right fear Hope. How will you describe right fear? 

Chr. True or right fear is discovered by three things: 

1. By its rise; it is caused by saving convictions for sin. 

2. It driveth the soul to lay fast hold of Christ for 

3. It begetteth and continueth in the soul a great rever- 
ence of God, his Word, and Ways, keeping it tender, and 



making it afraid to turn from them, to the right hand or 
to the left, to anything that may dishonour God, break 
its peace, grieve the Spirit, or cause the Enemy to speak 

Hope. Well said; I believe you have said the truth. Are 
we now almost got past the Inchanted Ground? 

Chr. Why, art thou weary of this discourse? 

Hope. No, verily, but that I would know where we 

Chr. We have not now above two miles further to go why 
thereon. But let us return to our matter. Now the Igno- Arsons 
rant know not that such convictions as tend to put them s""*. 
in fear are for their good, and therefore they seek to stifle 
them. In general 

Hope. How do they seek to stifle them ? 

Chr. I. They think that those fears are wrought by the In P"- 
Devil, (though indeed they are wrought of God) and 
thinking so, they resist them as things that directly tend 
to their overthrow. 2. They also think that these fears 
tend to the spoiling of their Faith, when alas for them, 
poor men that they are, they have none at all! and there- 
fore they harden their hearts against them. 3. They 
presume they ought not to fear, and therefore in despite 
of them wax presumptuously confident. 4. They see that 
these fears tend to take away from them their pitiful old 
self-holiness, and therefore they resist them with all their 

Hope. I know something of this myself; for before I 
knew myself it was so with me. 

Chr. Well, we will leave at this time our Neighbor 
Ignorance by himself, and fall upon another profitable 

Hope. With all my heart, but you shall still begin. 

Chr. Well then, did you not know about ten years ago. Talk about 
one Temporary in your parts, who was a forward man in x^porary 
Religion then ? 

Hope. Know him! yes, he dwelt in Graceless, a town 


where he 

He was 


go back 


about two miles off of Honesty, and he dwelt next door 
to one Turn-bacl{. 

Chr. Right, he dwelt 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 due thereto. 

Hope. I am of your mind, for (my house not being 
above three miles from him) he would oft-times come to 
me, and that with many tears. Truly I pitied the man, 
and was not altogether without hop)e of him; but one 
may see it is not every one that cries. Lord, Lord. 

Chr. He told me once, That he was resolved to go on 
Pilgrimage, as we do now; but all of a sudden he grew 
acquainted with one Saveself, and then he became a 
stranger to me. 

Hope. Now since we are talking about him, let us a 
little enquire into the reason of the sudden backsliding 
of him and such others. 

Chr. It may be very profitable, but do you begin. 

Hope. Well then, there are in my judgment four rea- 
sons for it. 

I. Though the consciences of such men are awakened, 
yet their minds are not changed; therefore when the 
power of guilt weareth away, that which provoked them 
to be religious ceaseth. Wherefore they naturally turn 
to their own course again, even as we see the Dog that 
is sick of what he has eaten, so long as his sickness pre- 
vails, he vomits and casts up all; not that he doth this of 
a free mind, (if we may say a Dog has a mind) but be- 
cause it troubleth his Stomach; but now when his sickness 
is over, and so his Stomach eased, his desire being not at 
all alienate from his vomit, he turns him about and licks 
up all; and so it is true which is written. The Dog is 
turned to his own vomit again. This I say, being hot 
for Heaven by vertue only of the sense and fear of the 
torments of Hell, as their sense of Hell and the fears of 
damnation chills and cools, so their desires for Heaven 


and Salvation ccx)l also. So then it comes to pass, that 
when their guilt and fear is gone, their desires for Heaven 
and Happiness die, and they return to their course again. 

2. Another reason is, they have slavish fears that do 
over-master them; I speak now of the fears that they 
have of men, For the fear of men bringeth a snare. So 
then, though they seem to be hot for Heaven, so long 
as the flames of Hell are about their ears, yet when that 
terror is a little over, they betake themselves to second 
thoughts; namely, that 'tis good to be wise, and not to 
run (for they know not what) the hazard of losing all; 
or at least, of bringing themselves into unavoidable and 
unnecessary troubles, and so they fall in with the world 

3. The shame that attends Religion lies also as a block 
in their way; they are proud and haughty, and Religion 
in their eye is low and contemptible; therefore when 
they have lost their sense of Hell and wrath to come, 
they return again to their former course. 

4. Guilt, and to meditate terror, are grievous to them; 
they like not to see their misery before they come into 
it. Though perhaps the sight of it first, if they loved that 
sight, might make them fly whither the righteous fly 
and are safe. But because they do, as I hinted before, 
even shun the thoughts of guilt and terror, therefore 
when once they are rid of their awakenings about the 
terrors and wrath of God, they harden their hearts gladly, 
and chuse such ways as will harden them more and more. 

Chr. You are pretty near the business, for the bottom 
of all is, for want of a change in their mind and will. 
And therefore they are but like the Felon that standeth 
before the Judge, he quakes and trembles, and seems to 
repent most heartily, but the bottom of all is the fear of 
the Halter, not that he hath any detestation of the offence; 
as is evident, because, let but this man have his liberty, 
and he will be a Thief, and so a Rogue still; whereas, if 
his mind was changed, he would be otherwise. 

156 pilgrim's progress 

Hope. Now I have shewed you the reasons of their 
going back, do you show me the manner thereof. 
Chr. So I will willingly. 
How the I. They draw off their thoughts, all that they may, 

go«'back from the remembrance of God, Death and Judgment 
to come. 

2. Then they cast off by degrees private Duties, as 
Closet-prayer, Curbing their Lusts, Watching, Sorrow 
for Sin, and the like. 

3. Then they shun the company of lively and warm 

4. After that they grow cold to public Duty, as Hear- 
ing, Reading, Godly Conference, and the like. 

5. Then they begin to pick holes, as we say, in the 
Coats of some of the Godly; and that devilishly, that 
they may have a seeming colour to throw Religion (for 
the sake of some infirmity they have spied in them) 
behind their backs. 

6. Then they begin to adhere to, and associate them- 
selves with carnal, loose and wanton men. 

7. Then they give way to carnal and wanton discourses 
in secret; and glad are they if they can see such things 
in any that are counted honest, that they may the more 
boldly do it through their example. 

8. After this, they begin to play with little sins openly. 

9. And then, being hardened, they shew themselves as 
they are. Thus being launched again into the gulf of 
misery, unless a Miracle of Grace prevent it, they ever- 
lastingly perish in their own deceivings. 

Angels Now I saw in my Dream, that by this time the Pilgrims 

were got over the Inchanted Ground, and entering into 
the Country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and 
pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they solaced 
themselves there for a season. Yea, here they heard con- 
tinually the singing of Birds, and saw every day the 
Flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice of the 
Turde in the land. In this Country the Sun shineth night 


and day; wherefore this was beyond the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of Giant 
Despair, neither could they from this place so much as 
see Doubting Castle. Here they were within sight of 
the City they were going to, also here met them some 
of the inhabitants thereof; for in this land the Shining 
Ones commonly walked, because it was upon the borders 
of Heaven. In this land also the contract between the 
Bride and the Bridegroom was renewed; yea here, as the 
Bridegroom rejoiceth over the Bride, so did their God 
rejoice over them. Here they had no want of Corn and 
Wine; for in this place they met with abundance of what 
they had sought for in all their Pilgrimage. Here they 
heard voices from out of the City, loud voices, saying, 
Say ye to the daughter of Zion Behold thy salvation 
cometh, behold his reward is with him. Here all the 
inhabitants of the Country called them, The holy People, 
The redeemed of the Lord, Sought out, &c. 

Now as they walked in this land, they had more re- 
joicing than in parts more remote from the Kingdom to 
which they were bound; and drawing near to the City, 
they had yet a more perfect view thereof. It was builded 
of Pearls and Precious Stones, also the Street thereof was 
paved with Gold; so that by reason of the natural glory 
of the City, and the reflections of the Sun-beams upon it, 
Christian with desire fell sick. Hopeful also had a fit or 
two of the same disease. Wherefore here they lay by it a 
while, crying out because of their pangs, // you see my 
Beloved, tell him that I am sicl{ of love. 

But being a little strengthened, and better able to bear 
their sickness, they walked on their way, and came yet 
nearer and nearer, where were Orchards, Vineyards, and 
Gardens, and their gates opened into the High-way. 
Now as they came up to these places, behold the Gardener 
stood in the way, to whom the Pilgrims said. Whose 
goodly Vineyards and Gardens are these? He answered. 
They are the King's and are planted here for his own 

158 pilgrim's progress 

delights, and also for the solace of Pilgrims. So the 
Gardener had them into the Vineyards, and bid them 
refresh themselves with Dainties. He also shewed them 
there the King's walks, and the Arbors where he delighted 
to be; and here they tarried and slept. 

Now I beheld in my Dream, that they talked more in 
their sleep at this time than ever they did in all their 
Journey; and being in a muse thereabout, the Gardener 
said even to me. Wherefore musest thou at the matter.' 
It is the nature of the fruit of the Grapes of these Vine- 
yards to go down so sweetly as to cause the lips of them 
that are asleep to speak. 

So I saw that when they awoke, they addressed them- 
selves to go up to the City. But, as I said, the reflection 
of the Sun upon the City (for the City was pure Gold) 
was so extremely glorious, that they could not as yet with 
open face behold it, but through an Instrument made for 
that purpose. So I saw that as they went on, there met 
them two men, in Raiment that shone like Gold, also 
their faces shone as the light. 

These men asked the Pilgrims whence they came ? and 
they told them. They also asked them where they had 
lodged, what difficulties and dangers, what comforts 
and pleasures they had met in the way? and they told 
them. Then said the men that met them. You have but 
two difficulties more to meet with, and then you are in 
the City. 

Christian then and his Companion asked the men to 
go along with them, so they told them they would. But, 
said they, you must obtain it by your own Faith. So I 
saw in my Dream that they went on together till they 
came in sight of the Gate. 
Death Now I further saw that betwixt them and the Gate 

was a River, but there was no Bridge to go over, the 
River was very deep: at the sight therefore of this River 
the Pilgrims were much stunned; but the men that went 


with them said, You must go through, or you cannot 
come at the Gate. 

The Pilgrims then began to enquire if there was no 
other way to the Gate; to which they answered, Yes, but 
there hath not any, save two, to wit, Enoch and Elijah, 
been permitted to tread that path, since the foundation 
of the World, nor shall, until the last Trumpet shall 
sound. The Pilgrims then, especially Christian, began to 
dispond in his mind, and looked this way and that, but 
no way could be found by them by which they might 
escape the River. Then they asked the men if the Waters 
were all of a depth? They said. No; yet they could not 
help them in that case, for said they, you shall find it 
deeper or shallower, as you believe in the King of the 

They then addressed themselves to the Water; and 
entring, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his 
good friend Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep Waters; the 
Billows go over my head, all his Waves go over me, 

Then said the other. Be of good cheer my Brother, I 
feel the bottom, and it is good. Then said Christian, Ah 
my friend, the sorrows of death have compassed me 
about, I shall not see the land that flows with milk and 
honey. And with that a great darkness and horror fell 
upon Christian, so that he could not see before him. Also 
here he in great measure lost his senses, so that he could 
neither remember, nor orderly talk of any of those sweet 
refreshments that he had met with in the way of his 
Pilgrimage. But all the words that he spake still tended 
to discover that he had horror of mind, and heartfears 
that he should die in that River, and never obtain en- 
trance in at the Gate. Here also, as they that stood by 
perceived, he was much in the troublesome thoughts of 
the sins that he had committed, both since and before 
he began to be a Pilgrim. 'Twas also observed that he 


Death is 
not wel- 
come to 
though by 
it we pass 
out of this 
world in 
to glory 

help us 
not com- 

conflict at 
the hour 
of death 


from his 
fears in 

The angels 
do wait 
for them, 
so soon as 
they are 
out of this 


was troubled with apparitions of Hobgoblins and evil 
Spirits, for ever and anon he would intimate so much by 
words. Hopeful therefore here had much ado to keep 
his Brother's head above water; yea sometimes he would 
be quite gone down, and then ere a while he would rise 
up again half dead. Hopeful also would endeavour to 
comfort him, saying, Brother, I see the Gate, and men 
standing by to receive us. But Christian would answer, 
'Tis you, 'tis you they wait for, you have been hopeful 
ever since I knew you. And so have you, said he to 
Christian. Ah Brother, said he, surely if I was right, he 
would now arise to help me; but for my sins he hath 
brought me into the snare, and hath left me. Then said 
Hopeful, My Brother, you have quite forgot the Text, 
where it is said of the wicked. There is no band in their 
death, but their strength is firm, they are not troubled as 
other men, neither are they plagued like other men. These 
troubles and distresses that you go through in these 
Waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you, but are 
sent to try you, whether you will call to mind that which 
heretofore you have received of his goodness, and live 
upon him in your distresses. 

Then I saw in my Dream, that Christian was as in a 
muse a while. To whom also Hopeful added this word. 
Be of good cheer, Jesus Christ ma^eth thee whole; and 
with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, Oh I 
see him again, and he tells me, When thou passest through 
the Waters, I will be with thee; and through the Rivers, 
they shall not overflow thee. Then they both took cour- 
age, and the Enemy was after that as still as a stone, until 
they were gone over. Christian therefore presently found 
ground to stand upon, and so it followed that the rest 
of the River was but shallow. Thus they got over. Now 
upon the bank of the River on the other side, they saw 
the two shining men again, who there waited for them; 
wherefore being come out of the River, they saluted 
them saying. We are ministring Spirits, sent forth to 

pilgrim's progress i6i 

minister for those that shall be heirs of salvation. Thus 
they went along towards the Gate. 

Now, now, look how the holy Pilgrims ride, 
Clouds are their Chariots, Angels are their Guide: 
Who would not here tor him all hazards run. 
That thus provides for his when this World's done? 

Now you must note that the City stood upon a mighty They have 
Hill, but the Pilgrims went up that Hill with ease be- morulity 
cause they had these two men to lead them up by the 
arms; also they had left their mortal Garments behind 
them in the River, for though they went in with them, 
they came out without them. They therefore went up 
here with much agility and speed, though the foundation 
upon which the City was framed was higher than the 
Clouds. They therefore went up through the Regions 
of the Air, sweetly talking as they went, being comforted, 
because they safely got over the River, and had such 
glorious Companions to attend them. 

The talk that they had with the Shining Ones was 
about the glory of the place, who told them that the 
beauty and glory of it was inexpressible. There, said 
they, is the Mount Zion, the heavenly ferusalem, the 
innumerable company of Angels, and the Spirits of just 
men made perfect. You are going now, said they, to the 
Paradise of God, wherein you shall see the Tree of Life, 
and eat of the never-fading fruits thereof; and when 
you come there, you shall have white Robes given you, 
and your walk and talk shall be every day with the King, 
even all the days of Eternity. There you shall not see 
again such things as you saw when you were in the lower 
Region upon the earth, to wit, sorrow, sickness, affliction, 
and death, for the former things are passed away. You 
are now going to Abraham, to Isaac, and facob, and to 
the Prophets, men that God hath taken away from the 
evil to come, and that are now resting upon their beds, 
each one walking in his righteousness. The men then 
asked. What must we do in the holy place ? To whom it 

1 62 pilgrim's progress 

was answered, You must there receive the comfort of 
all your toil, and have joy for all your sorrow; you must 
reap what you have sown, even the fruit of all your 
Prayers and Tears, and sufferings for the King by the 
way. In that place you must wear Crowns of Gold, and 
enjoy the perpetual sight and vision of the Holy one, for 
there you shall see him as he is. There also you shall 
serve him continually with praise, with shouting, and 
thanksgiving, whom you desired to serve in the World, 
though with much difficulty, because of the infirmity of 
your flesh. There your eyes shall be delighted with see- 
ing, and your ears with hearing the pleasant voice of the 
Mighty One. There you shall enjoy your friends again, 
that are gone thither before you; and there you shall with 
joy receive even every one that follows into the holy place 
after you. There also shall you be cloathed with Glory 
and Majesty, and put into an equipage fit to ride out with 
the King of Glory. When he shall come with sound of 
Trumpet in the Clouds, as upon the wings of the Wind, 
you shall come with him; and when he shall sit upon 
the Throne of Judgment, you shall sit by him; yea, and 
when he shall pass sentence upon all the workers of 
iniquity, let them be Angels or Men, you also shall have 
a voice in that Judgment, because they were his and your 
Enemies. Also when he shall again return to the City, 
you shall go too, with sound of Trumpet, and be ever 
with him. 

Now while they were thus drawing towards the Gate, 
behold a company of the Heavenly Host came out to 
meet them; to whom it was said by the other two Shining 
Ones, These are the men that have loved our Lord when 
they were in the World, and that have left all for his 
Holy Name, and he hath sent us to fetch them, and we 
have brought them thus far on their desired Journey, 
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 they that are called to the Marriage 

pilgrim's progress 163 

Supper of the Lamb. There came out also at this time to 
meet them, several of the King's Trumpeters, cloathed 
in white and shining Raiment, who with melodious 
noises and loud, made even the Heavens to echo with 
their sound. These Trumpeters saluted Christian and 
his fellow with ten thousand welcomes from the World, 
and this they did with shouting and sound of Trumpet. 

This done, they compassed them round on every side; 
some went before, some behind, and some on the right 
hand, some on the left, (as 'twere to guard them through 
the upper Regions) continually sounding as they went 
with melodious noise, in notes on high: so that the very 
sight was to them that could behold it, as if Heaven it- 
self was come down to meet them. Thus therefore they 
walked on together; and as they walked, ever and anon 
these Trumpeters, even with joyful sound, would, by 
mixing their musick with looks and gestures, still signify 
to Christian and his Brother, how welcome they were 
into their company, and with what gladness they came 
to meet them; and now were these two men as 'twere 
in Heaven before they came at it, being swallowed up 
with the sight of Angels, and with hearing of their 
melodious notes. Here also they had the City itself in 
view, and they thought they heard all the Bells therein 
ring to welcome them thereto. But above all, the warm 
and joyful thoughts that they had about their own dwell- 
ing there, with such company, and that for ever and ever. 
Oh, by what tongue or pen can their glorious joy be 
expressed! And thus they came up to the Gate. 

Now when they were come up to the Gate, there was 
written over it in Letters of Gold, Blessed are they that 
do his Commandments , that they may have 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 bid 
them call at the Gate; the which when they did, some 
from above looked over the Gate, to wit, Enoch, Moses, 

164 pilgrim's progress 

and Elijah, Src, to whom it was said, These Pilgrims 
are come from the City of Destruction for the love that 
they bear to the King of this place; and then the Pilgrims 
gave in unto them each man his Certificate, which they 
had received in the beginning; those therefore were car- 
ried in to the King, who when he had read them, said. 
Where are the men? To whom it was answered. They 
are standing without the Gate. The King then com- 
manded to open the Gate, That the righteous nation, 
saith he, that l^eepeth Truth may enter in. 

Now I saw in my Dream that these two men went in 
at the Gate; and lo, as they entered, they were trans- 
figured, and they had Raiment put on that shone like 
Gold. There was also that met them with Harps and 
Crowns, and gave them to them, the Harps to praise 
withal, and the Crowns in 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 unto them. Enter ye 
into the joy of your Lord. I also heard the men them- 
selves, that they sang with a loud voice, saying, Blessing, 
Honour, Glory, and Power, be to him that sitteth upon 
the Throne, and to the Lamb for ever and ever. 

Now just as the Gates were opened to let in the men, 
I looked in after them, and behold, the City shone like 
the Sun: the Streets also were paved with Gold, and in 
them walked many men, with Crowns on their heads. 
Palms in their hands, and golden Harps to sing praises 

There were also of them that had wings, and they 

answered one another without intermission, saying. Holy, 

Holy, Holy, is the Lord. And after that they shut up the 

Gates. Which when I had seen, I wished myself among 


Ignorance Now while I was gazing upon all these things, I turned 

to the "^y head to look back, and saw Ignorance come up to the 

river River-side; but he soon got over, and that without half 

that difficulty which the other two men met with. For 

pilgrim's progress 165 

it happened that there was then in that place one Vain- Vain-hope 
/tope a Ferry-man, that with his Boat helped him over; him over 
so he, as the other I saw, did ascend the Hill to come up 
to the Gate, only he came alone; neither did any man 
meet him with the least encouragement. When he was 
come up to the Gate, he looked up to the writing that 
was above, and then began to knock, supposing that 
entrance should have been quickly administered to him; 
but he was asked by the men that looked over the top of 
the Gate, Whence came you ? and what would you have ? 
He answered, I have eat and drank in the presence of the 
King, and he has taught in our Streets. Then they asked 
him for his Certificate, that they might go in and shew 
it to the King. So he fumbled in his bosom for one, and 
found none. Then said they. Have you none? But the 
man answered never a word. So they told the King, but 
he would not come down to see him, but commanded 
the two Shining Ones that conducted Christian and Hope- 
ful to the City, to go out and take Ignorance, and bind 
him hand and foot, and have him away. Then they took 
him up, and carried him through the air to the door that 
I saw 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, / have told my Dream to thee; 
See if thou canst interpret it to me. 
Or to thyself, or Neighbor; but tal(e heed 
Of mis-interpreting; for that, instead 
Of doing good, will but thyself abuse: 
By mis-interpreting, evil insues. 

Tal^e heed also, that thou be not extreme, 
In playing with the out-side of my Dream: 
Nor let my figure or similitude 
Put thee into a laughter or a feud; 
Leave this for Boys and Fools; but as for thee. 
Do thou the substance of my matter see. 

Put by the Curtains, lool^ within my Vail; 
Turn up my Metaphors, and do not fail 
There, if thou see^est them, such things to find 
As will be helpful to an honest mind. 

What of my dross thou findest there, be bold 
To throw away, but yet preserve the Gold; 
What if my Gold be wrapped up in Ore? 
None throws away the Apple for the Core. 
But if thou shalt cast away all as vain, 
I know not but 'twill make me Dream again. 





Wherein is set forth 

the manner of the setting out of Christian's 

Wife and Children, their Dangerous Journey, and 

Safe Arrival at the Desired Country 


/ have used Similitudes. Hos. 12. 10. 



Go now my little Bool^, to every place 

Where my first Pilgrim has but shewn his Face: 

Call at their door; If any say, Who's there? 

Then answer thou, Christiana is here. 

// they bid thee Come in, then enter thou. 

With all thy Boys; and then, as thou ^now'st how. 

Tell who they are, also from whence they came; 

Perhaps they'll l(now them by their loo^s, or name. 

But if they should not, asl(^ them yet again 

If formerly they did not entertain 

One Christian a Pilgrim ? // they say 

They did, and was delighted in his Way; 

Then 'et them ^now that those related were 

Unto him, yea, his Wife and Children are. 

Tell them that they have left their House and Home, 
Are turned Pilgrims, seel{^ a World to come; 
That they have met with Hardships in the way: 
That they do meet with Troubles night and day; 
That they have trod on Serpents, fought with Devils, 
Have also overcame a many evils. 
Yea, tell them also of the next, who have 
Of love to Pilgrimage been stout and brave 
Defenders of that Way, and how they still 
Refuse this World, to do their Father's will. 

Go tell them also of those dainty things. 
That Pilgrimage unto the Pilgrim brings. 
Let them acquainted be too, how they are 
Beloved of their King, under his care; 
What goodly Mansions for them he provides, 
Tho' they meet with rough Winds and swelling Tides, 
How brave a Calm they will enjoy at last. 
Who to their Lord, and by his ways hold fast. 


Perhaps with heart and hand they will embrace 
Thee, as they did my Firstling, and will grace 
Thee, and thy fellows, with such cheer and fare. 
As shew will they of Pilgrims loi/ers are. 

1 Objection 

But how if they will not believe of me 

That I am truly thine, 'cause some there be 

That counterfeit the Pilgrim and his name, 

Seek by disguise to seem the very same, 

And by that means have wrought themselves into 

The hands and houses of I know not who? 


'Tis true, some have of late, to counterfeit 
My Pilgrim, to their own my Title set; 
Yea others half my Name and Title too 
Have stitched to their Boo]{^, to mal(e them do; 
But yet they by their Features do declare 
Themselves not mine to be, whose ere they are. 

If such thou meetst with, then thine only way 
Before them all is to say out thy say, 
In thine own native language, which no man 
Now useth, nor with ease dissemble can. 
If after all they still of you shall doubt. 
Thinking that you lil{e Gipsies go about 
In naughty wise the Country to defile. 
Or that you seel(^ good people to beguile 
With things unwarrantable; send for me. 
And I will testifie you Pilgrims be; 
Yea, I will testifie that only you 
My Pilgrims are; and that alone will do. 

2 Objection 

But yet {jerhaps I may inquire for him, 
Of those that wish him damned life and limb. 
What shall I do, when I at such a door 
For Pilgrims ask, and they shall rage the more? 



Fright not thyself my Boo\, for such Bugbears 
Are nothing else but ground for groundless fears: 
My Pilgrim's Bool{^ has travell'd sea and land. 
Yet could I never come to understand 
That it was slighted, or turn'd out of door 
By any Kingdom, were they rich or poor. 

In France and Flanders, where men kjll each other. 
My Pilgrim is esteem'd a Friend, a Brother. 

In Holland too 'tis said, as I am told, 
My Pilgrim is with some worth more than Gold. 

Highlanders and Wild Irish can agree 
My Pilgrim should familiar with them be. 

'Tis in New England under such advance. 
Receives there so much loving countenance. 
As to be trimm'd, new cloth' d, and decl(t with Gems, 
That it may shew its features and its limbs. 
Yet more, so comely doth my Pilgrim wal^. 
That of him thousands daily sing and tall^. 

If you draw nearer home, it will appear 
My Pilgrim t{nows no ground of shame or fear; 
City and Country will him entertain 
With Welcome Pilgrim; yea, they can't refrain 
From smiling, if my Pilgrim be but by. 
Or shews his head in any Company. 

Brave Galants do my Pilgrim hug and love. 
Esteem it much, yea, value it above 
Things of a greater bull(^: yea, with delight. 
Say my Lark's leg is better than a Kite. 

Young Ladies, and young Gentle-women too. 
Do no small l^indness to my Pilgrim shew; 
Their Cabinets, their Bosoms, and their Hearts 
My Pilgrim has, 'cause he to them imparts 
His pretty riddles in such wholesome strains. 
As yield them profit double to their pains 
Of reading. Yea, I thinl{^ I may be bold 
To say some prize him far above their Gold. 

The very Children that do wall(^ the street. 
If they do but my holy Pilgrim meet. 


Salute him will, will wish him well, and say. 
He is the only Stripling 0/ the Day. 

They that have never seen him, yet admire 
What they have heard of him, and much desire 
To have his company, and hear him tell 
Those Pilgrim stories which he knows so well. 

Yea, some who did not love him at the first. 
But call'd him Fool and Noddy, say they must 
Now they have seen and heard him, him commend; 
And to those whom they love they do him send. 

Wherefore my Second Part, thou need'st not be 
Afraid to shew thy Head; none can hurt thee. 
That wish but well to him that went before, 
'Cause thou com'st after with a second store 
Of things as good, as rich, as profitable. 
For Young, for Old, for Stagg'ring, and for Stable. 

3 Objection 

But some there be that say he laughs too loud; 
And some do say his Head is in a Cloud. 
Some say his Words and Stories are so dark, 
They know not how by them to find his mark. 


One may (I thin]() say. Both his laughs and cries 
May well be guess'd at by his watery eyes. 
Some things are of that nature as to mal{e 
One's Fancie chucl{le, while his Heart doth a^e. 
When Jacob saw his Rachel with the sheep. 
He did at the same time both ]{iss and weep. 

Whereas some say, A Cloud is in his Head, 
That doth but shew how Wisdom's covered 
With its own mantles, and to stir the mind 
To a search after what it fain would find: 
Things that seem to be hid in words obscure. 
Do but the Godly mind the more allure; 
To study what those sayings should contain 
That spea\ to us in such a Cloudy strain. 

I also l(now a darl( Similitude 

THE author's apology 1 73 

Will on the Fancie more itself intrude. 

And will stic/(^ faster in the Heart and Head, 

Than things from Similies not borrowed. 

Wherefore my Boo/(^, let no discouragement 
Hinder thy travels. Behold, thou art sent 
To Friends, not foes: to Friends that will give place 
To thee, thy Pilgrims and thy words embrace. 

Besides, what my first Pilgrim left conceal'd, 
Thou my brave Second Pilgrim hast reveal'd; 
What Christian left locl(t up, and went his way. 
Sweet Christiana opens with her Key. 

4 Objection 

But some love not the method of your first, 
Romance they count it, throw't away as dust. 
If I should meet with such, what should I say? 
Must I slight them as they slight me, or nay? 


My Christiana, // with such thou meet. 
By all means in all loving tvise them greet; 
Render them not reviling for revile; 
But if they frown, I prithee on them smile; 
Perhaps 'tis Nature, or some ill report. 
Has made them thus despise, or thus retort. 

Some love no Cheese, some love no Fish, and some 
Love not their Friends, nor their own House or Home; 
Some start at Pig, slight Chicken, love not Fowl, 
More than they love a Cuc^ow or an Owl; 
Leave such, my Christiana, to their choice. 
And seek t^ose who to find thee will rejoice; 
By no means strive, but in all humble wise 
Present thee to them in thy Pilgrim's guise. 

Go then my little Boo^, and shew to all 
That entertain, and bid thee welcome shall. 
What thou shalt keep close, shut up from the rest. 
And wish what thou shalt shew them may be blest 
To them for good, may make them chuse to be 
Pilgrims better by far than thee or me. 


Go then, I say, tell all men who thou art. 
Say, I am Christiana, and my part 
Is now, with my jour Sons, to tell you what 
It is for men to ta^e a Pilgrim's lot: 

Go also tell them who and what they be, 
That now do go on Pilgrimage with thee; 
Say, Here's my Neighbor Mercy, she is one 
That has long time with me a Pilgrim gone. 
Come see her in her Virgin Face, and learn 
'Twixt Idle ones and Pilgrims to discern. 
Yea, let young Damsels learn of her to prize 
The World which is to come, in any wise. 
When little tripping Maidens follow God, 
And leave old doting Sinners to his Rod; 
'Tis lil^e those days wherein the young ones cried 
Hosanah, to whom old ones did deride. 

Next tell them of old Honest, who you found 
With his white hairs treading the Pilgrim's ground. 
Yea, tell them how plain-hearted this man was. 
How after his good Lord he bare his Cross; 
Perhaps with some grey Head this may prevail 
With Christ to fall in Love, and Sin bewail. 

Tell them also how Master Fearing went 
On Pilgrimage, and how the time he spent 
In Solitariness, with 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 doth Life inherit. 

Tell them of Master Feeble-mind also. 
Who not before, but still behind would go; 
Shew them also how he had li^e been slain. 
And how one Great-heart did his life regain. 
This man was true of Heart, tho' wea\ in Grace, 
One might true Godliness read in his Face. 
Then tell them oj Master Ready-to-halt, 
A man with Crutches, but much without jault; 
Tell them how Master Feeble-mind and he 
Did love, and in opinions much agree. 
And let all \now, tho' weal^ness was their chance. 
Yet sometimes one could sing, the other dance. 


Forget not Master Valiant-for-the-truth, 
That Man of courage, though a very Youth. 
Tell every one his Spirit was so stout, 
No man could ever mal^e him face about, 
And how Great-heart and he could not forbear. 
But put-down Doubting Castle, slay Despair. 

Overlook not Master Despondancie, 
Nor Much-afraid, his daughter, tho' they lie 
Under such Mantles as may ma^e them lool{^ 
( With some) as if their God had them forsoo^. 
They softly went, but sure, and at the end 
Found that the Lord of Pilgrims was their Friend. 
When thou hast told the world of all these things. 
Then turn about, my Boo/(^, and touch these strings. 
Which if but touched, will such Music/^ mal^e. 
They'll mal(e a Cripple dance, a Giant quake. 

These Riddles that lie couch't within thy breast. 
Freely propound, expound; and for the rest 
Of thy mysterious lines, let them remain 
For those whose nimble Fancies shall them gain. 

Now may this little Boo\ a blessing be 
To those who love this little Bool^ and me. 
And may its Buyer have no cause to say, 
His Money is but lost or thrown away; 
Yea, may this Second Pilgrim yield that fruit, 
As may with each good Pilgrim's Fancie suit; 
And may it persuade some that go astray. 
To turn their Feet and Heart to the right way: 

Is the Hearty Prayer 

of the Author 





COURTEOUS Companions, some time since, to 
tell you my Dream that I had of Christian the 
Pilgrim, and of his dangerous Journey toward 
the Coelestial Country, was pleasant to me, and profitable 
to you. I told you then also what I saw concerning his 
Wife and Children, and how unwilling they were to go 
with him on Pilgrimage, insomuch that he was forced 
to go on his Progress without them; for he durst not 
run the danger of that destruction which he feared would 
come by staying with them in the City of Destruction. 
Wherefore as I then shewed you, he left them and 

Now it hath so happened, through the multiplicity 
of Business, that I have been much hindred and kept back 
from my wonted Travels into those parts whence he 
went, and so could not till now obtain an opportunity 
to make further enquiry after whom he left behind, that 
I might give you an account of them. But having had 
some concerns that way of late, I went down again 
thitherward. Now having taken up my Lodgings in a 
Wood about a mile off the place, as I slept I dreamed 

And as I was in my Dream, behold an aged Gentleman 
came by where I lay; and because he was to go some 
part of the way that I was travelling, methought I got 
up and went with him. So as we walked, and as Travel- 
lers usually do, I was as if we fell into discourse, and our 



are well 
spoken of 
when gone; 
called £(X>I$ 
while they 
are here 


talk happened to be about Christian and his Travels; 
for thus I began with the old man. 

Sir, said I, what Town is that there below, that lieth 
on the left hand of our way ? 

Then said Mr Sagacity, (for that was his name) It is 
the City of Destruction, a populous place, but possessed 
with a very ill-conditioned and idle sort of People. 

I thought that was the City, quoth I, I went once my- 
self through that Town, and therefore know that this 
report you give of it is true. 

Sag. Too true, I wish I could speak truth in speaking 
better of them that dwell therein. 

Well, Sir, quoth I, then I perceive you to be a well- 
meaning man; and so one that takes pleasure to hear and 
tell of that which is good : pray did you never hear what 
happened to a man some time ago in this Town (whose 
name was Christian) that went on Pilgrimage up towards 
the higher Regions? 

Sag. Hear of him! Ay, and I also heard of the Molesta- 
tions, Troubles, Wars, Captivities, Cries, Groans, Frights, 
and Fears that he met with and had in his Journey. 
Besides, I must tell you, all our Country rings of him; 
there are but few houses that have heard of him and his 
doings but have sought after and got the Records of his 
Pilgrimage; yea, I think I may say that his hazardous 
Journey has got a many well-wishers to his ways; for 
though when he was here, he was Fool in every man's 
mouth, yet now he is gone, he is highly commended of 
all. For 'tis said he lives bravely where he is; yea, many 
of them that are resolved never to run his hazards, yet 
have their mouths water at his gains. 

They may, quoth I, well think, if they think anything 
that is true, that he liveth well where he is; for he now 
lives at and in the Fountain of Life, and has what he 
has without labour and sorrow, for there is no grief 
mixed therewith. 

Sag. Talk! the people talk strangely about him. Some 

pilgrim's progress 179 

say that he now walks in White, that he has a Chain of Christian's 
Gold about his neck, that he has a Crown of Gold, beset ,vill take 
with Pearls, upon his head. Others say that the Shining Christian'f 
Ones that sometimes shewed themselves to him in his 
Journey, are become his Companions, and that he is as 
familiar with them in the place where he is, as here one 
Neighbor is with another. Besides, 'tis confidently af- 
firmed concerning him, that the King of the place where 
he is has bestowed upon him already a very rich and 
pleasant dwelling at Court; and that he every day eateth 
and drinketh, and walketh, and talketh with him; and 
receiveth of the smiles and favours of him that is Judge 
of all there. Moreover, it is expected of some, that his 
Prince, the Lord of that Country, will shortly come into 
these parts, and will know the reason, if they can give 
any, why his Neighbors set so little by him, and had him 
so much in derision when they perceived that he would 
be a Pilgrim. For they say, that now he is so in the affec- 
tions of his Prince, and that his Sovereign is so much 
concerned with the indignities that were cast upon Chris- 
tian when he became a Pilgrim, that he will look upon 
all as if done unto himself; and no marvel, for 'twas for 
the love that he had to his Prince that he ventured as he 

I dare say, quoth I, 1 am glad on't; I am glad for the 
poor man's sake, for that he now has rest from his labour, 
and for that he now reapeth the benefit of his Tears with 
Joy; and for that he has got beyond the Gun-shot of his 
Enemies, and is out of the reach of them that hate him. 
I also am glad for that a rumour of these things is noised 
abroad in this Country; who can tell but that it may work 
some good effect on some that are left behind ? But pray 
Sir, while it is fresh in my mind, do you hear anything 
of his Wife and Children } Poor hearts, I wonder in my 
mind what they do! 

Sag. Who! Christiana and her sons? They are like 
to do as well as did Christian himself; for though they 


tidinf!S of 
wife and 

First Part, 
p. i6o 

Mark this, 
you that 
are churls 
to your 


all play'd the fool at the first, and would by no means be 
persuaded by either the tears or entreaties of Christian, 
yet second thoughts have wrought wonderfully with 
them; so they have packt up, and are also gone after him. 

Better and better, quoth I. But what! Wife and Chil- 
dren and all ? 

Sag. It is true; I can give you an account of the matter, 
for I was upon the spot at the instant, and was thor- 
oughly acquainted with the whole affair. 

Then, said I, a man it seems may report it for a Truth? 

Sag. You need not fear to affirm it, I mean that they 
are all gone on Pilgrimage, both the good Woman and 
her four Boys. And being we are, as I perceive, going 
some considerable way together, I will give you an 
account of the whole of the matter. 

This Christiana (for that was her name from the day 
that she with her Children betook themselves to a Pil- 
grim's life) after her Husband was gone over the River, 
and she could hear of him no more, her thoughts began 
to work in her mind. First, for that she had lost her 
Husband, and for that the loving bond of that relation 
was utterly broken betwixt them. For you know, said he 
to me. Nature can do no less but entertain the living with 
many a heavy cogitation in the remembrance of the loss 
of loving Relations. This therefore of her Husband did 
cost her many a tear. But this was not all, for Christiana 
did also begin to consider with herself, whether her 
unbecoming behaviour towards her Husband was not 
one cause that she saw him no more, and that in such 
sort he was taken away from her. And upon this came 
into her mind by swarms, all her unkind, unnatural, and 
ungodly carriages to her dear Friend; which also clogged 
her Conscience, and did load her with guilt. She was 
moreover much broken with calling to remembrance the 
restless groans, brinish tears, and self-bemoanings of her 
Husband, and how she did harden her heart against all 
his entreaties and loving persuasions (of her and her 



Sons) to go with him; yea, there was not anything that 

Christian either said to her, or did before her all the while 

that his Burden did hang on his back, but it returned 

upon her like a flash of lightning, and rent the caul of 

her Heart in sunder. Specially that bitter outcry of his, R^st P"* 

What shall I do to be saved? did ring in her ears most 


Then said she to her Children, Sons, we are all undone. 
I have sinned away your Father, and he is gone: he 
would have had us with him; but I would not go myself, 
I also have hindred you of Life. With that the Boys 
fell all into tears, and cried out to go after their Father. 
Oh! said Christiana, that it had been but our lot to go 
with him, then had it fared well with us, beyond what 'tis 
like to do now; for tho' I formerly foolishly imagin'd con- 
cerning the troubles of your Father, that they proceeded 
of a foolish Fancy that he had, or for that he was over- 
run with melancholy Humours; yet now 'twill not out 
of my mind but that they sprang from another cause, to 
wit, for that the Light of Light was given him, by the 
help of which, as I perceive, he has escaped the snares 
of Death. Then they all wept again, and cried out, O 
Wo worth the day. 

The next night Christiana had a Dream; and behold Chra- 
she saw as if a broad Parchment was opened before her, dream 
in which were recorded the sum of her ways; and the 
times, as she thought, look'd very black upon her. Then 
she cried out aloud in her sleep, Lord have Mercy upon 
me a Sinner; and the little Children heard her. 

After this she thought she saw two very ill-favoured Mark this, 
ones standing by her Bedside, and saying. What shall we quintes- 
do with this Woman? for she cries out for Mercy waging sen'^e 
and sleeping; if she be suffered to go on as she begins, we 
shall lose her as we have lost her Husband. Wherefore 
we must by one way or other, seek to take her off from 
the thoughts of what shall be hereafter, else all the World 
cannot help it but she will become a Pilgrim. 

1 82 



tions sec- 
onded with 
of God's 
to pardon 


Now she awoke in a great sweat, also a trembling was 
upon her, but after a while she fell to sleeping again. 
And then she thought she saw Christian her Husband in 
a place of Bliss among many Immortals, with an Harp 
in his Hand, standing and playing upon it before one that 
sat on a Throne with a Rainbow about his Head. She 
saw also as if he bowed his Head with his Face to the 
pav'd-work that was under the Prince's feet, saying, / 
heartily thanl{ my Lord and King for bringing of me 
into this Place. Then shouted a company of them that 
stood round about, and harped with their Harps; but no 
man living could tell what they said, but Christian and 
his Companions. 

Next morning when she was up, had prayed to God, 
and talked with her Children a while, one knocked hard 
at the door, to whom she spake out, saying, // thou 
earnest in God's name, come in. So he said Amen, and 
opened the Door, and saluted her with Peace be to this 
house. The which when he had done, he said, Christiana, 
knowest thou wherefore I am come? Then she blushed 
and trembled, also her Heart began to wax warm with 
desires to know whence he came, and what was his 
errand to her. So he said unto her. My name is Secret, 
I dwell with those that are high. It is talked of where I 
dwell, as if thou hadst a desire to go thither; also there 
is a report that thou art aware of the evil thou hast 
formerly done to thy Husband, in hardening of thy Heart 
against his way, and in keeping of these thy Babes in 
their Ignorance. Christiana, the Merciful One has sent 
me to tell thee that he is a God ready to forgive, and that 
he taketh delight to multiply to pardon offences. He 
would also have thee know that he inviteth thee to come 
into his presence, to his Table, and that he will feed thee 
with the Fat of his house, and with the Heritage of 
Jacob thy Father. 

There is Christian thy Husband that was, with Legions 
more his Companions, ever beholding that Face that 


doth minister Life to beholders; and they will all be glad 
when they shall hear the sound of thy feet step over thy 
Father's threshold. 

Christiana at this was greatly abashed in herself, and 
bowing her head to the ground, this Visitor proceeded 
and said, Christiana, here is also a Letter for thee, which 
I have brought from thy Husband's King. So she took it 
and opened it, but it smelt after the manner of the best 
Perfume, also it was written in letters of Gold. The con- 
tents of the Letter was. That the King would have her 
do as did Christian her Husband; for that tvas the way 
to come to his City, and to dwell in his Presence with 
Joy for ever. At this the good Woman was quite over- 
come; so she cried out to her Visitor, Sir, will you carry 
me and my Children with you, that we also may go and 
worship this King? 

Then said the Visitor, Christiana, the bitter is before 
the sweet: thou must through troubles, as did he that 
went before thee, enter this Coclestial City. Wherefore I 
advise thee to do as did Christian thy Husband: Go to 
the Wicket-gate yonder, over the Plain, for that stands 
in the head of the way up which thou must go, and I 
wish thee all good speed. Also I advise that thou put this 
Letter in thy bosom; that thou read therein to thyself and 
to thy Children, until you have got it by rote of heart, for 
it is one of the Songs that thou must sing while thou art 
in this House of thy Pilgrimage; also this thou must 
deliver in at the further Gate. 

Now I saw in my Dream, that this old Gentleman, as 
he told me this story, did himself seem to be greatly 
affected therewith. He moreover proceeded and said. So 
Christiana called her Sons together, and began thus to 
address herself unto them: My Sons, I have as you may 
perceive, been of late under much exercise in my Soul 
about the Death of your Father; not for that I doubt at 
all of his Happiness, for I am satisfied now that he is well. 
I have also been much affected with the thoughts of mine 



tion to 

prays well 
for her 







her old 


First Part, 
p. 46 


own state and yours, which I verily believe is by nature 
miserable. My carriages also to your Father in his dis- 
tress, is a great load to my Conscience; for I hardened 
both my own heart and yours against him, and refused 
to go with him on Pilgrimage. 

The thoughts of these things would now kill me out- 
right, but that for a Dream which I had last night, and 
but for the encouragement that this stranger has given 
me this morning. Come my Children, let us pack up and 
be gone to the Gate that leads to the Coelestial Country, 
that we may see your Father, and be with him and his 
Companions in peace, according to the Laws of that 

Then did her Children burst out into tears for joy that 
the heart of their Mother was so inclined. So their Visitor 
bid them farewell, and they began to prepare to set out 
for their Journey. 

But while they were thus about to be gone, two of the 
women that were Christiana's Neighbors, came up to 
her house and knocked at her door. To whom she said 
as before, // you come in God's name, come in. At this 
the women were stunned, for this kind of language they 
used not to hear, or to perceive to drop from the lips 
of Christiana. Yet they came in: but behold they 
found the good woman a preparing to be gone from her 

So they began and said, Neighbor, pray what is your 
meaning by this? 

Christiana answered and said to the eldest of them, 
whose name was Mrs Timorous, I am preparing for a 
Journey. (This Timorous was daughter to him that met 
Christian upon the Hill Difficulty, and would a had him 
gone back for fear of the Lions.) 

Tim. For what Journey I pray you? 

Chris. Even to go after my good Husband. And with 
that she fell a weeping. 

Tim. I hope not so, good Neighbor, pray for your poor 

pilgrim's progress 185 

Children's sakes, do not so unwomanly cast away your- Timorous 

., / ^ » comes 

sell. to visit 

Chris. Nay, my Children shall go with me, not one of Christiana, 
them is willing to stay behind. Mercy, one 

Tim. I wonder in my very heart, what or who has °^''" 
brought you into this mind. 

Chris. Oh, Neighbor, knew you but as much as I do, 
I doubt not but that you would go with me. 

Tim, Prithee what new knowledge hast thou got, that 
so worketh off thy mind from thy Friends, and that 
tempteth thee to go nobody knows where? 

Chris. Then Christiana replied, I have been sorely Death 
afflicted since my Husband's departure from me, but 
specially since he went over the River. But that which 
troubleth me most, is my churlish carriages to him when 
he was under his distress. Besides, I am now as he was 
then; nothing will serve me but going on Pilgrimage. 
I was a dreaming last night that I saw him. O that my 
Soul was with him. He dwelleth in the presence of the 
King of the Country, he sits and eats with him at his 
table, he is become a Companion of Immortals, and has a 
House now given him to dwell in, to which the best 
Palaces on Earth if compared, seem to me to be but as a 
Dunghill. The Prince of the place has also sent for me, 
with promise of entertainment if I shall come to him; 
his messenger was here even now, and has brought me a 
Letter, which invites me to come. And with that she 
pluck'd out her Letter, and read it, and said to them, 
What now will you say to this? 

Tim. Oh the madness that has possessed thee and thy Fi"^' ^"^> 
Husband, to run yourselves upon such difficulties! You 
have heard, I am sure, what your Husband did meet with, 
even in a manner at the first step that he took on his 
way, as our Neighbor Obstinate can yet testify, for he 
went along with him; yea and Pliable too, until they 
like wise men, were afraid to go any further. We also 
heard over and above, how he met with the Lions, Apol- 


The rea- 
sonings of 
the flesh 

A perti- 
nent reply 
to fleshly 

yearn over 

her, but 
to her 


lyon, the Shadow of Death, and many other things. Nor 
is the danger that he met with at Vanity Fair to be for- 
gotten by thee; for if he, tho' a Man, was so hard put 
to it, what canst thou, being but a poor Woman, do? 
Consider also that these four sweet Babes are thy Chil- 
dren, thy Flesh and thy Bones. Wherefore though thou 
shouldest be so rash as to cast away thyself, yet for the 
sake of the Fruit of thy Body keep thou at home. 

But Christiana said unto her, tempt me not, my Neigh- 
bor. I have now a price put into mine hand to get gain, 
and I should be a Fool of the greatest size if I should 
have no heart to strike in with the opportunity. And 
for that you tell me of all these Troubles that I am like 
to meet with in the way, they are so far off from being to 
me a discouragement, that they shew I am in the right. 
The bitter must come before the sweet, and that also 
will make the sweet the sweeter. Wherefore since you 
came not to my house in God's name, as I said, I 
pray you to be gone, and not to disquiet me farther. 

Then Timorous also revil'd her, and said to her fellow, 
Come Neighbor Mercy, let us leave her in her own hands, 
since she scorns our Counsel and Company. But Mercy 
was at a stand, and could not so readily comply with her 
Neighbor, and that for a twofold reason. First, her bowels 
yearned over Christiana: so she said within herself. If my 
Neighbor will needs be gone, I will go a little way with 
her and help her. Secondly, her bowels yearned over her 
own Soul, (for what Christiana had said had taken 
some hold upon her mind.) Wherefore she said within 
herself again, I will yet have more talk with this Chris- 
tiana, and if I find Truth and Life in what she shall say, 
myself with my heart shall also go with her. Wherefore 
Mercy began thus to reply to her Neighbor Timorous. 

Mercy. Neighbor, I did indeed come with you to see 
Christiana this morning; and since she is, as you see, a 
taking of her last farewell of her Country, I think to 
walk this Sun-shine morning a little way with her to 

pilgrim's progress 187 

help her on the way. But she told her not o£ her second 
reason, but kept that to herself. 

Tim. Well, I see you have a mind to go a fooling too, Timorous 
but take heed in time, and be wise: while we are out of JJcr friends 
danger, we are out; but when we are in, we are in. So what the 
Mrs Timorous returned to her house, and Christiana be- Christiana 
took herself to her Journey. But when Timorous was got intends 
home to her house, she sends for some of her Neighbors, 
to wit, Mrs Bat's-eyes, Mrs Inconsiderate, Mrs Light- 
mind, and Mrs Know-nothing. So when they came to her 
house, she falls to telling of the story of Christiana and of 
her intended Journey. And thus she began her tale. 

Tim. Neighbors, having had little to do this morning, 
I went to give Christiana a visit; and when I came at the 
door, I knocked, as you know 'tis our custom. And she 
answered, // you come in God's name, come in. So in I 
went, thinking all was well. But when I came in, I found 
her preparing herself to depart the Town, she and also 
her Children. So I asked her what was her meaning by 
that? And she told me in short, that she was now of a 
mind to go on Pilgrimage, as did her Husband. She told 
me also a Dream that she had, and how the King of the 
Country where her Husband was had sent her an inviting 
Letter to come thither. 

Then said Mrs Know-nothing, And what do you think Mrs. 
she will go? ^o"^*g 

Tim. Ay, go she will, whatever come on't; and me- 
thinks I know it by this, for that which was my great 
argument to persuade her to stay at home (to wit, the 
Troubles she was like to meet with in the way) is one 
great argument with her to put her forward on her 
Journey. For she told me in so many words. The bitter 
goes before the sweet. Yea, and for as much as it so doth, 
it makes the sweet the sweeter. 

Mrs Bat's-eyes. Oh this blind and foolish woman, said Mrs Bat'$- 
she, will she not take warning by her Husband's afflic- 
tions ? For my part I see if he was here again, he would 



Mrs In- 


she that 
had like 
to have 
been too 
hard for 
in time 

First Part, 
p. 72 

and good 

to go 

have her 
with her 


rest him content in a whole skin, and never run so many 
hazards for nothing. 

Mrs Inconsiderate also replied, saying. Away with such 
Fantastical Fools from the Town! A good riddance for 
my part I say of her. Should she stay where she dwells, 
and retain this her mind, who could live quietly by her? 
for she will either be dumpish or unneighborly, or talk 
of such matters as no wise body can abide; wherefore for 
my part I shall never be sorry for her departure; let her 
go, and let better come in her room: 'twas never a good 
World since these whimsical Fools dwelt in it. 

Then Mrs Light-mind added as foUoweth: Come put 
this kind of talk away. I was yesterday at Madam Wan- 
ton's, where we were as merry as the maids. For who do 
you think should be there, but I and Mrs Love-the-flesh. 
and three or four more, with Mr Lechery, Mrs Filth, and 
some others. So there we had musick and dancing, and 
what else was meet to fill up the pleasure. And I dare 
say my Lady herself is an admirably well-bred Gentle- 
woman, and Mr Lechery is as pretty a fellow. 

By this time Christiana was got on her way, and Mercy 
went along with her. So as they went, her Children being 
there also, Christiana began to discourse. And Mercy, 
said Christiana, I take this as an unexpected favour, that 
thou shouldst set foot out of doors with me, to accom- 
pany me a little in my way. 

Mercy. Then said young Mercy (for she was but 
young) If I thought it would be to purpose to go with 
you, I would never go near the Town any more. 

Chris. Well Mercy, said Christiana, cast in thy lot with 
me: I well know what will be the end of our Pilgrimage; 
my Husband is where he would not but be for all the 
Gold in the Spanish Mines. Nor shalt thou be rejected, 
though thou goest but upon my Invitation. The King 
who hath sent for me and my Children is one that de- 
lighteth in Mercy. Besides, if thou wilt, I will hire thee, 
and thou shalt go along with me as my servant; yet we 

pilgrim's progress 189 

will have all things in common betwixt thee and me, 
only go along with me. 

Mercy. But how shall I be ascertained that I also shall Mercy 
be entertained? Had I this hope but from one that can jccepunce 
tell, I would make no stick at all, but would go, being 
helped by him that can help, tho' the way was never so 

Chris. Well loving Mercy, I will tell thee what thou Christiana 
shalt do. Go with me to the Wicl{et-gate, and there I ,„ ,i,e gate, 
will further enquire for thee; and if there thou shalt not which is 
meet with encouragement, I will be content that thou promiseth 
shalt return to thy place. I also will pay thee for thy jhere to 
kindness which thou shewest to me and my Children, f"? h^^ 
in thy accompanying us in our way as thou doest. 

Mercy. Then I will go thither, and will take what Mercy 
shall follow, and the Lord grant that my lot may there ''"'" 
fall even as the King of Heaven shall have his heart 
upon me. 

Christiana then was glad at her heart, not only thai she Christiana 
had a Companion, but also for that she had prevailed ^j^rcy's 
with this poor Maid to fall in love with her own Salvation, company 
So they went on together, and Mercy began to weep. 
Then said Christiana, Wherefore weepeth my Sister so? 

Mercy. Alas! said she, who can but lament, that shall Mercy 
but rightly consider what a state and condition my poor fJJ^her 
Relations are in that yet remain in our sinful Town: and carnal 
that which makes my grief the more heavy is, because 
they have no Instructor, nor any to tell them what is to 

Chris. Bowels becometh Pilgrims; and thou dost for Chris- 
thy Friends as my good Christian did for me when he p""yers 
left me; he mourned for that I would not heed nor were 
regard him, but his Lord and ours did gather up his *",'"![ 
Tears, and put them into his Bottle; and now both I and relations 
thou and these my sweet Babes, are reaping the fruit and Jj,j,"jead 
benefit of them. I hope, Mercy, these Tears of thine will 
not be lost; for the truth hath said, That they that sow in 


Rm Part, 
p. 19 

Their own 
sions, in- 
stead of 
the Word 
of life 

the boldest 
at the 
Slough of 


Tears shall reap in Joy, in singing. And he that goeth 
forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless 
come again with rejoicing, bringing his Sheaves with 
Then said Mercy, 

Let the Most Blessed be my guide. 
If 't be his blessed will, 
Unto his Gate, unto his Fold, 
Up to his Holy Hill. 

And let him never sufler me 
To swerve or turn aside 
From his free grace and holy ways, 
Whate'er shall me betide. 

And let him gather them of mine. 
That I have left behind; 
Lx)rd make them pray they may be thine, 
With all their heart and mind. 

Now my old Friend proceeded and said: But when 
Christiana came up to the Slough of Dispond, she began 
to be at a stand; for said she, This is the place in which 
my dear Husband had like to have been smothered with 
mud. She perceived also, that notwithstanding the com- 
mand of the King to make this place for Pilgrims good, 
yet it was rather worse than formerly. So I asked if that 
was true. Yes, said the Old Gentleman, too true, for 
that many there be that pretend to be the King's 
Labourers, and that say they are for mending the King's 
High-way, that bring dirt and dung instead of stones, 
and so mar instead of mending. Here Christiana there- 
fore with her Boys, did make a stand; but said Mercy, 
Come let us venture, only let us be wary. Then they 
looked well to the steps, and made a shift to get stagger- 
ingly over. 

Yet Christiana had like to a been in, and that not once 
nor twice. Now they had no sooner got over, but they 
thought they heard words that said unto them, Blessed 


is she that believeth, for there shall be a performance of 
the things that have been told her from the Lord. 

Then they went on again; and said Mercy to Chris- 
tiana, Had I as good ground to hope for a loving recep- 
tion at the Wicl^et-gate as you, I think no Slough of 
Dispond would discourage me. 

Well, said the other, you know your sore, and 1 know 
mine; and good friend, we shall all have enough evil 
before we come at our Journey's end. 

For can it be imagined, that the people that design to 
attain such excellent Glories as we do, and that are so 
envied that Happiness as we are; but that we shall 
meet with what Fears and Scares, with what Troubles 
and Afflictions, they can possibly assault us with that 
hate us? 

And now Mr Sagacity left me to dream out my Dream ''"y*' 
by myself. Wherefore me-thought I saw Christiana and majp „;,[, 
Mercy and the Boys go all of them up to the Gate; to cpnsidera- 
which when they were come, they betook themselves to fe^r, as 
a short debate about hotv they must manage their calling *«" « 
at the Gate, and what should be said to him that did jjjj i,opg 
open to them. So it was concluded, since Christiana was 
the eldest, that she should knock for entrance, and that 
she should speak to him that did open for the rest. So Fi"« ?»«• 
Christiana began to knock, and as her poor Husband did, 
she l^nocl^ed and \nocked again. But instead of any 
that answered, they all thought that they heard as if a 
Dog came barking upon them; a Dog, and a great one l"''<^ <'°k> 
too, and this made the Women and Children afraid: nor ^n enemy 
durst they for a while to knock any more, for fear the »» prayer 
Mastiff should fly upon them. Now therefore they were 
greatly tumbled up and down in their minds, and knew Christiana 
not what to do. Knock they durst not, for fear of the compan- 
Dog; go back they durst not, for fear that the Keepier of '""s pcr- 
that Gate should espy them as they so went, and should ^i^ut 
be offended with them. At last they thought of knocking prayer 
again, and knocked more vehemently than they did at the 



is enter- 
tained at 
the gate 

prayer for 
her friend 

The delays 
make the 
soul the 


first. Then said the Keeper of the Gate, Who is there? 
So the Dog left off to bark, and he opened unto them. 

Then Christiana made low obeisance and said. Let not 
our Lord be offended with his Hand-maidens, for that 
we have knocked at this princely Gate. Then said the 
Keeper, Whence come ye, and what is that you would 
have ? 

Christiana answered. We are come from whence Chris- 
tian did come, and upon the same Errand as he; to wit, 
to be if it shall please you, graciously admitted by this 
Gate into the way that leads to the Coelestial City. And I 
answer, my Lord, in the next place, that I am Christiana, 
once the Wife of Christian that now is gotten above. 

With that the Keeper of the Gate did marvel, saying, 
What is she become now a Pilgrim, that but a while ago 
abhorred that life? Then she bowed her head, and said, 
Yes, and so are these my sweet Babes also. 

Then he took her by the hand, and let her in, and said 
also. Suffer the little Children to come unto me; and with 
that he shut up the Gate. This done, he called to a 
Trumpeter that was above over the Gate, to entertain 
Christiana with shouting and sound of Trumpet for joy. 
So he obeyed and sounded, and filled the air with his 
melodious notes. 

Now all this while poor Mercy did stand without, 
trembling and crying for fear that she was rejected. But 
when Christiana had gotten admittance for herself and 
her Boys, then she began to make intercession for Mercy. 

Chris. And she said, My Lord, I have a Companion 
of mine that stands yet without, that is come hither upon 
the same account as myself; one that is much dejected in 
her mind, for that she comes, as she thinks, without send- 
ing for, whereas I was sent to by my Husband's King to 

Now Mercy began to be very impatient, for each 
minute was as long to her as an hour, wherefore she pre- 
vented Christiana from a fuller interceding for her, by 


knocking at the Gate herself. And she knocked then so 
loud, that she made Christiana to start. Then said the 
Keeper of the Gate, Who is there? and said Christiana, 
It is my Friend. 

So he opened the Gate, and looked out; but Mercy Mercy 
was fallen down without in a swoon, for she fainted, and 
was afraid that no Gate would be opened to her. 

Then he took her by the hand, and said, Damsel, I bid 
thee arise. 

Oh Sir, said she, I am faint; there is scarce life left in 
me. But he answered, That one once said, When my soul 
jointed within me; I remembered the Lord, and my 
prayer came in unto thee, into thy Holy Temple. Fear 
not, but stand upon thy feet, and tell me wherefore thou 
art come. 

Mercy. I am come for that unto which I was never "^^ ""*' 
invited as my Friend Christiana was. Hers was from the fainting 
King, and mine was but from her: wherefore I fear I 

Did she desire thee to come with her to this Place? 

Mercy. Yes; and as my Lord sees I am come. And if 
there is any grace or forgiveness of sins to spare, I beseech 
that I thy poor Handmaid may be partaker thereof. 

Then he took her again by the hand, and led her gently Mirk this 
in, and said, I pray for all them that believe on me, by 
what means soever they come unto me. Then said he 
to those that stood by. Fetch something, and give it to 
Mercy to smell on, thereby to stay her fainting. So they 
fetch'd her a bundle of Myrrh, and a while after she was 

And now was Christiana and her Boys and Mercy, 
received of the Lord, at the head of the way, and spoke 
kindly unto by him. 

Then said they yet further unto him. We are sorry for 
our sins, and beg of our Lord his Pardon, and further 
information what we must do. 

I grant Pardon, said he, by word and deed; by word, in 


Christ cru- 
cificd seen 
afar od 

Talk be- 
tween the 

First Part, 
p. 29 

thinks her 
than she 


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. 

Now I saw in my Dream that he spake many good 
words unto them, whereby they were greatly gladded. 
He also had them up to the top of the Gate, and shewed 
ihem by what deed they were saved; and told them 
withal that that sight they would have again as they went 
along in the way, to their comfort. 

So he left them a while in a Summer Parlor below, 
where they entred into talk by themselves; and thus 
Christiana began: O Lord! how glad am 1 that we are 
got in hither. 

Mercy. So you well may; but I of all have cause to 
leap for joy. 

Chris. I thought one time, as I stood at the Gate (be- 
cause I had knocked and none did answer) that all our 
labour had been lost, specially when that ugly Cur made 
such a heavy barking against us. 

Mercy. But my worst fear was after I saw that you 
was taken into his favour and that I was left behind. 
Now thought I 'tis fulfilled which is written, Two women 
shall be grinding together, the one shall be ta/^en and the 
other left. I had much ado to forbear crying out, Undone, 

And afraid I was to knock any more; but when I 
looked up to what was written over the Gate, I took 
courage. I also thought that I must either knock again, 
or die; so I knocked, but I cannot tell how, for my spirit 
now struggled betwixt life and death. 

Chris. Can you not tell how you knocked? I am sure 
your knocks were so earnest, that the very sound of them 
made me start; I thought I never heard such knocking 
in all my life; I thought you would a come in by violent 
hands, or a took the Kingdom by storm. 

Mercy. Alas, to be in my case, who that so was could 
but a done so? You saw that the Door was shut u[X)n 


me, and that there was a most cruel Dog thereabout. 
Who, I say, that was so faint-hearted as I, that would not 
have knocked with all their might' But pray what said 
my Lord to my rudeness? was he not angry with me? 

Chris. When he heard your lumbering noise, he gave ^''"'^ 
a wonderful innocent smile; I believe what you did „i,h loud 
pleased him well enough, for he shewed no sign to the and rest- 
contrary. But I marvel in my heart why he keeps such a 
Dog; had I known that afore, I fear I should not have '^ 'he soul 
had heart enough to a ventured myself in this manner, ^now all it 

But now we are in, we are in, and I am glad with all my should meet 
I with in its 

neart. journey to 

Mercy. I will ask if you please next time he comes heaven, it 
down, why he keeps such a filthy Cur in his yard; I hardly even 
hope he will not take it amiss. set o"t 

Ay do, said the Children, and persuade him to hang 
him, for we are afraid he will bite us when we go hence. The chil- 

So at last he came down to them again, and Mercy afraid^of 
fell to the ground on her face before him and worshipped, the dog 
and said. Let my Lord accept of the sacrifice of Praise 
which I now offer unto him with the calves of my lips. 

So he said unto her, Peace be to thee, stand up. But Mercy ex- 
she continued upon her face and said. Righteous art thou j^out 
Lord when I plead with thee, yet let me tal^ with thee the dog 
of thy Judgments. Wherefore dost thou keep so cruel a 
Dog in thy yard, at the sight of which such Women and 
Children as we are ready to fly from thy Gate for fear ? 

He answered and said. That Dog has another owner; Devil 
he also is kept close in another man's ground only my 
Pilgrims hear his barking; he belongs to the Castle which 
you see there at a distance, but can come up to the walls 
of this place. He has frighted many an honest Pilgrim F'"t Part, 
from worse to better, by the great voice of his roaring. 
Indeed he that owneth him doth not keep him of any 
good will to me or mine, but with intent to keep the 
Pilgrims from coming to me, and that they may be afraid 
to knock at this Gate for entrance. Sometimes also he 

p. 30 


A check 
to the car- 
nal fear 
of the 

when wise 
in the 
wisdom of 
their Lord 

First Part, 
p. 32 


has broken out, and has worried some that I love; but I 
take all at present patiently. I also give my Pilgrims 
timely help, so they are not delivered up to his power, to 
do to them what his doggish nature would prompt him 
to. But what! my purchased one, I tro, hadst thou known 
never so much beforehand, thou wouldest not have been 
afraid of a Dog. 

The Beggars that go from Door to Door, will, rather 
than they will lose a supposed Alms, run the hazard of 
the bawling barking and biting too of a Dog; and shall 
a Dog, a Dog in another man's yard, a Dog whose bark- 
ing I turn to the profit of Pilgrims, keep any from coming 
to me? I deliver them from the Lions, their Darling 
from the power of the Dog. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy, I confess my ignorance; I 
spake what I understood not; I acknowledge that thou 
doest all things well. 

Chris. Then Christiana began to talk of their Journey, 
and to enquire after the way. So he fed them, and washed 
their feet, and set them in the way of his steps, according 
as he had dealt with her Husband before. So I saw in 
my Dream that they walk'd on their way, and had the 
weather very comfortable to them. 

Then Christiana began to sing, saying, 

Bless'd be the Day that I began 
A Pilgrim for to be; 
And blessed also be that man 
That thereto moved me. 

'Tis true, 'twas long ere I began 
To seek to live jor ever: 
But now I run fast as I can; 
"Tis better late than never. 

Our Tears to Joy, our Fears to Faith, 
Are turned, as we see. 
Thus our beginning (as one saith,) 
Shews what our end will be. 


Now there was, on the other side of the Wall that The devil's 
fenced in the way up which Christiana and her Compan- 
ions were to go, a Garden, and that Garden belonged to 
him whose was that barl^ing Dog of whom mention was 
made before. And some of the Fruit-Trees that grew in 
that Garden shot their branches over the Wall; and being 
mellow, they that found them did gather them up, and 
oft eat of them to their hurt. So Christiana's Boys, as Boys T''e '^''il- 
are apt to do, being pleas'd with the trees, and with the of (he 
Fruit that did hang thereon, did plash' them, and began enemy's 
to eat. Their mother did also chide them for so doing, 
but still the Boys went on. 

Well, said she, my Sons, you transgress, for that Fruit Two ill- 
is none of ours; but she did not know that they did belong „„£, 
to the Enemy; I'll warrant you if she had, she would a 
been ready to die for fear. But that passed, and they went 
on their way. Now by that they were gone about two 
bow-shots from the place that let them into the way, they 
espied two very ill-fafoured ones coming down apace to 
meet them. With that Christiana and Mercy her Friend 
covered themselves with their Vails, and so kept on their 
Journey; the Children also went on before, so that at 
last they met together. Then they that came down to They 
meet them, came just up to the Women as if they would Christiana 
embrace them; but Christiana said. Stand back, or go 
peaceably by as you should. Yet these two, as men that The 
are deaf, regarded not Christiana's words, but began to ft'rug^c 
lay hands upon them. At that Christiana waxing very w'th 'hem 
wroth, spurned at them with her feet. Mercy also as well 
as she could, did what she could to shift them. Christiana 
again said to them, Stand back, and be gone, for we have 
no money to lose, being Pilgrims as ye see, and such too as 
live upon the Charity of our Friends. 

lll-jav. Then said one of the two of the men. We make 
no assault upon you for your Money, but are come out to 

' Bend them down with sticks. 


she cries 

It is good 
to cry out 
we are 




The ill 
ones fly to 
the devil 
for relief 


tell you, that if you will grant one small request which 
we shall ask, we will make Women of you for ever. 

Chris. Now Christiana imagining what they should 
mean, made answer again, We will neither hear, nor 
regard, nor yield to what you shall ask. We are in 
haste, cannot stay, our business is a business of Life and 
Death. So again she and her Companions made a fresh 
assay to go past them, but they letted them in their 

Ill-fat/. And they said, We intend no hurt to your lives, 
'tis another thing we would have. 

Chris. Ah, quoth Christiana, you would have us Body 
and Soul, for I know 'tis for that you are come; but we 
will die rather upon the spot, than suffer ourselves to be 
brought into such snares as shall hazard our well-being 
hereafter. And with that they both shrieked out, and 
cried. Murder, murder: and so put themselves under 
those Laws that are provided for the Protection of 
Women. But the men still made their approach upon 
them, with design to prevail against them: they therefore 
cried out again. 

Now they being, as I said, not far from the Gate in at 
which they came, their voice was heard from where they 
was, thither. Wherefore some of the House came out, and 
knowing that it was Christiana's tongue they made haste 
to her relief. But by that they was got within sight of 
them, the Women was in a very great scuffle, the children 
also stood crying by. Then did he that came in for their 
relief call out to the Ruffians, saying. What is that thing 
that you do? Would you make my Lord's people to 
transgress? He also attempted to take them, but they 
did make their escapie over the Wall into the Garden of 
the man to whom the great Dog belonged; so the Dog 
became their Protector. This Reliever then came up to 
the Women, and asked them how they did. So they 
answered. We thank thy Prince, pretty well, only we have 
been somewhat affrighted; we thank thee also for that 


thou earnest in to our help, for otherwise we had been 

Reliever. So after a few more words, this Reliever said 
as foUoweth; I marvelled much when you were enter- 
tained at the Gate above, being ye know that ye were but 
weak Women, that you petitioned not the Lord there for 
a Conductor; then might you have avoided these trou- 
bles and dangers, for he would have granted you one. 

Chris. Alas! said Christiana, we were so taken with our 
present blessing, that dangers to come were forgotten by 
us; besides, who could have thought that so near the 
King's Palace there should have lurked such naughty 
ones? Indeed it had been well for us, had we asked our 
Lord for one; but since our Lord knew 'twould be for 
our profit, I wonder he sent not one along with us! 

Rel. It is not always necessary to grant things not asked 
for, lest by so doing they become of litde esteem; but 
when the want of a thing is felt, it then comes under, in 
the eyes of him that feels it, that estimate that properly 
is its due, and so consequently will be thereafter used. 
Had my Lord granted you a Conductor, you would not 
neither so have bewailed that oversight of yours in not 
asking for one as now you have occasion to do. So all 
things work for good, and tend to make you more wary. 

Chris. Shall we go back again to my Lord, and confess 
our folly, and ask one? 

Rel. Your confession of your folly I will present him 
with. To go back again you need not; for in all places 
where you shall come, you will find no want at all, for 
in every of my Lord's Lodgings which he has prepared 
for the reception of his Pilgrims, there is sufficient to 
furnish them against all attempts whatsoever. But as I 
said, he will be enquired of by them to do it for them: 
and 'tis a poor thing that is not worth asking for. When 
he had thus said, he went back to his place, and the 
Pilgrims went on their way. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy, What a sudden blank is 


talks to the 

Mark this 

We lose 
for want 
of asking 

The mis- 
take of 




good use 
of their 
neglect of 

Talk in 
the Inter- 
going on 


here! I made account we had now been past all danger, 
and that we should never see sorrow more. 

Chris. Thy innocency, My Sister, said Christiana to 
Mercy, may excuse thee much; but as for me, my fault is 
so much the greater, for that I saw this danger before I 
came out of the Doors, and yet did not provide for it 
where provision might a been had. I am therefore much 
to be blamed. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy, How knew you this before 
you came from home? Pray open to me this riddle. 

Chris. Why, I will tell you. Before I set foot out of 
doors, one night as I lay in my bed, I had a Dream about 
this; for methought I saw two men as like these as ever 
the world they could look, stand at my bed's feet, plotting 
how they might prevent my Salvation. I will tell you 
their very words. They said ('twas when I was in my 
Troubles) What shall we do with this Woman? for she 
cries out walking and sleeping, for forgiveness: if she be 
suffered to go on as she begins, we shall lose her as we 
have lost her Husband. This you know might a made me 
take heed, and have provided when provision might a 
been had. 

Mercy. Well, said Mercy, as by this neglect we have 
an occasion ministred unto us to behold our own im- 
perfections, so our Lord has taken occasion thereby to 
make manifest the riches of his Grace. For he, as we 
see, has followed us with unasked kindness, and has 
delivered us from their hands that were stronger than we, 
of his mere good pleasure. 

Thus now when they had talked away a little more 
time, they drew nigh to an House which stood in the 
way, which House was built for the relief of Pilgrims; as 
you will find more fully related in the First Part of these 
Records of the Pilgrim's Progress. So they drew on 
towards the House (the House of the Interpreter) ; and 
when they came to the door, they heard a great talk in the 
House. They then gave ear, and heard, as they thought, 


Christiana mentioned by name. For you must know that 
there went along, even before her, a talk of her and her 
Children's going on Pilgrimage. And this thing was the 
more pleasing to them, because they had heard that she 
was Christian's Wife, that Woman who was some time 
ago so unwilling to hear of going on Pilgrimage. Thus 
therefore they stood still and heard the good people 
within commending her, who they little thought stood 
at the door. At last Christiana knocked as she had done 
at the Gate before. Now when she had knocked, there 
came to the door a young Damsel, and opened the door 
and looked, and behold two Women was there. 

Damsel. Then said the Damsel to them, With whom 
would you speak in this place? 

Chris. Christiana answered. We understand that this 
is a privileged place for those that are become Pilgrims, 
and we now at this door are such; wherefore we pray 
that we may be partakers of that for which we at this 
time are come; for the day, as thou seest, is very far spent, 
and we are loth to-night to go any further. 

Damsel. Pray what may I call your name, that I may 
tell it to my Lord within? 

Chris. My name is Christiana; I was the Wife of that 
Pilgrim that some years ago did travel this way, and these 
be his four Children. This Maiden also is my Companion, 
and is going on Pilgrimage too. 

Innocent. Then ran Innocent in (for that was her 
name) and said to those within. Can you think who is 
at the door? There is Christiana and her Children and 
her Companion, all waiting for entertainment here. Then 
they leaped for joy, and went and told their Master. So 
he came to the door, and looking upon her, he said. Art 
thou that Christiana whom Christian the Good-man left 
behind him, when he betook himself to a Pilgrim's hfe? 

Chris. I am that Woman that was so hard-hearted 
as to slight my Husband's Troubles, and that left him to 
go on in his Journey alone, and these are his four Chil- 


She knocks 
at the door 

The door 
is opened 
to tiiem by 

Joy in 
the house 
of the 

is turned 


Old saints 
glad to see 
the youn)( 
ones walk 
in God's 

The Sig- 

First Part, 
pp. 32-41 

The man 
with the 


dren; but now I also am come, for I am convinced that 
no way is right but this. 

Inter. Then is fulfilled that which is written of the 
man that said to his Son, Go work to-day in my Vine- 
yard; and he said to his Father, I will not; but afterwards 
repented and went. 

Chris. Then said Christiana, So be it. Amen. God 
make it a true saying u{X)n me, and grant that I may 
be found at the last of him in peace without spot and 

Inter. But why standest thou thus at the door? Come 
in, thou Daughter of Abraham. We was talking of thee 
but now, for tidings have come to us before how thou art 
become a Pilgrim. Come Children, come in; come Mai- 
den, come in. So he had them all into the House. 

So when they were within, they were bidden sit down 
and rest them; the which when they had done, those that 
attended upon 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 was become 
a Pilgrim. They also looked upon the Boys: they stroked 
them over the faces with the hand, in token of their kind 
reception of them. They also carried it lovingly to Mercy, 
and bid them all welcome into their Master's House. 

After a while, because Supper was not ready, the 
Interpreter took them into his significant Rooms, and 
shewed them what Christian, Christiana's Husband, had 
seen some time before. Here therefore they saw the Man 
in the Cage, the Man and his Dream, the Man that cut his 
way through his Enemies, and the Picture of the biggest 
of them all, together with the rest of those things that 
were then so profitable to Christian. 

This done and after these things had been somewhat 
digested by Christiana and her company, the Interpreter 
takes them apart again, and has them first into a Room 
where was a Man that could look no way but down- 
wards, with a Muck-rake in his hand. There stood also 

pilgrim's progress 203 

one over his head with a Coelestial Crown in his hand, 
and proffered him that Crown for his Muck-rake; 
but the man did neither look up, nor regard, but raked 
to himself the straws, the small sticks and dust of the 

Then said Christiana, I persuade myself that I know 
something of the meaning of this; for this is a figure of 
a Man of this World, is it not, good Sir ? 

Inter. Thou hast said the right said he, and his Muck- 
rake doth shew his carnal mind. And whereas thou 
seest him rather give heed to rake up straws and sticks 
and the dust of the floor, than to what he says that calls to 
him from above with the Coelestial Crown in his hand, it 
is to shew that Heaven is but as a fable to some, and that 
things here are counted the only things substantial. Now 
whereas it was also shewed thee that the man could look 
no way but downwards, it is to let thee know that earthly 
things when they are with power upon men's minds, 
quite carry their hearts away from God. 

Chris. Then said Christiana. O deliver me from this Chris- 
Muck-rake, prayer 

Inter. That prayer, said the Interpreter, has lain by against 

.,,,., '^ ' „. _/, , .' the muck- 

till tis almost rusty. Oive me not Riches, is scarcely the rake 

prayer of one of ten thousand. Straws and sticks and 

dust with most are the great things now looked after. 

With that Mercy and Christiana wept, and said, It is 
alasl too true. 

When the Interpreter had shewed them this, he had 
them into the very best Room in the House (a very brave 
Room it was) so he bid them look round about, and see 
if they could find anything profitable there. Then they 
looked round and round, for there was nothing there 
to be seen but a very great Spider on the wall, and that 
they overlook'd. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy, Sir, I see nothing; but ChriS' 
tiana held her peace. 

Inter. But said the Interpreter, Look again; she there- spider 


Talk about 
the spider 

The inter- 

Of the 
hen and 


fore look'd again and said, Here is not anything but an 
ugly Spider, who hangs by her hands upon the wall. 
Then said he, Is there but one Spider in all this spacious 
Room? Then the water stood in Christiana's eyes, for 
she was a woman quick of apprehension; and she said, 
Yes, Lord, there is here more than one. Yea, and Spiders 
whose Venom is far more destructive than that which is 
in her. The Interpreter then looked pleasantly upon her, 
and said, Thou hast said the truth. This made Mercy 
blush, and the Boys to cover their faces, for they all 
began now to understand the Riddle. 

Then said the Interpreter again, The Spider taketh hold 
with her hands as you see, and is in King's Palaces. And 
wherefore is this recorded, but to shew you, that how full 
of the Venom of sin soever you be, yet you may by the 
hand of faith lay hold of and dwell in the best Room that 
belongs to the King's House above? 

Chris. I thought, said Christiana, of some thing of this, 
but I could not imagine it all. I thought that we were like 
Spiders, and that we looked like ugly creatures, in what 
fine Room soever we were; but that by this Spider, this 
venomous and ill-favoured creature, we were to learn 
how to act Faith, came not into my mind. And yet 
she has taken hold with her hands, as I see, and dwells 
in the best Room in the House. God has made nothing 
in vain. 

Then they seemed all to be glad, but the water stood in 
their eyes; yet they looked one upon another, and also 
bowed before the Interpreter. 

He had them then into another Room where was a Hen 
and Chickens, and bid them observe a while. So one of 
the Chickens went to the trough to drink, and every time 
she drank she lift up her head and her eyes towards 
Heaven. See, said he, what this little Chick doth, and 
learn of her to acknowledge whence your mercies come, 
by receiving them with looking up. Yet again, said he, 
observe and look; so they gave heed and perceived that 


the Hen did walk in a four-fold method towards her 
Chickens, i. She had a common call, and that she hath 
all day long. 2. She had a special call, and that she had 
but sometimes. 3. She had a brooding note. And 4. She 
had an out-cry. 

Now said he, compare this Hen to your King, and these 
Chickens to his obedient ones. For answerable to her, 
himself has his methods which he walketh in towards 
his People; by his common call he gives nothing; by his 
special call he always has something to give; he has also 
a brooding voice for them that are under his wing; and 
he has an out-cry to give the alarm when he seeth the 
Enemy come. I chose, my Darlings, to lead you into the 
Room where such things are, because you are Women, 
and they are easy for you. 

Chris. And Sir, said Christiana, pray let us see some 
more. So he had them into the Slaughter-house, where Of ••'« 
was a Butcher a killing of a Sheep; and behold the Sheep j^j (he 
was quiet, and took her death patiently. Then said the steep 
Interpreter, You must learn of this Sheep to suffer, and to 
put up wrongs without murmurings and complaints. 
Behold how quietly she taketh her death, and without 
objecting she suflereth her skin to be pulled over her 
ears. Your King doth call you his Sheep. 

After this he led them into his Garden, where was Of the 
great variety of Flowers, and he said. Do you see all ^" *° 
these? So Christiana said, Yes. Then said he again. 
Behold the Flowers are diverse in stature, in quality and 
colour and smell and vertue, and some are better than 
some; also where the Gardener has set them there they 
stand, and quarrel not with one another. 

Again, he had them into his Field, which he had Of the 
sowed with Wheat and Corn ; but when they beheld, the 
tops of all was cut off, only the straw remained. He said 
again, This ground was dunged and plowed and sowed, 
but what shall we do with the Crop? Then said Chris- 
tiana, Burn some, and make muck of the rest. Then said 



the Interpreter again, Fruit you see is that thing you 
look for, and for want of that you condemn it to the fire, 
and to be trodden under foot of men; beware that in this 
you condemn not yourselves. 
Of the Then as they were coming in from abroad, they espied 

the'lpidcr ^ ^'''^^ Robitt with a great Spider in his mouth. So the 
Interpreter said, Lxx)k here. So they looked, and Mercy 
wondered; but Christiana said. What a disparagement 
is it to such a little pretty bird as the Robin-red-breast is, 
he being also a bird above many that loveth to maintain 
a kind of sociableness with man; I had thought they had 
lived u{X)n crums of bread, or upon other such harmless 
matter. I like him worse than I did. 

The Interpreter then replied. This Robin is an emblem 

very apt to set forth some Professors by; for to sight they 

are as this Robin, pretty of note, colour and carriage. 

They seem also to have a very great love for Professors 

that are sincere; and above all other to desire to associate 

with, and to be in their company, as if they could live 

upon the good man's crums. They pretend also that 

therefore it is that they frequent the house of the godly, 

and the appointments of the Lord: but when they are 

by themselves, as the Robin, they can catch and gobble 

up Spiders, they can change their diet, drink Iniquity, and 

swallow down Sin like water. 

Pray, and So when they were come again into the house, because 

get at Supper as yet was not ready, Christiana again desired 

that which that the Interpreter would either shew or tell of some 

unrevealed Other things that are profitable. 

Then the Interpreter began and said. The fatter the 
Sow is, the more she desires the Mire; the fatter the Ox is, 
the more gamesomely he goes to the slaughter; and the 
more healthy the lusty man is, the more prone he is unto 

There is a desire in Woman to go neat and fine and 
it is a comely thing to be adorned with that that in God's 
sight is of great price. 


'Tis easier watching a night or two, than to sit up a 
whole year together; so 'tis easier for one to begin to 
profess well, than to hold out as he should to the end. 

Every Ship-master when in a Storm, will willingly cast 
that overboard that is of the smallest value in the vessel; 
but who will throw the best out first? None but he that 
feareth not God. 

One Leak will sink a ship, and one sin will destroy a 

He that forgets his Friend is ungrateful unto him, but 
he that forgets his Saviour is unmerciful to himself. 

He that lives in Sin, and lool^s for Happiness hereafter, 
is lit{e him that soweth Cocl{le, and thinl^s to fill his Barn 
with Wheat or Barley. 

If a man would live well, let him fetch his last day to 
him, and make it always his Com pany-/(eeper. 

Whispering and change of thoughts proves that Sin is 
in the World. 

If the World which God sets light by, is counted a 
thing of that worth with men, what is Heaven which 
God commendeth? 

If the Life that is attended with so many Troubles, is 
so loth to be let go by us, what is the Life above? 

Everybody wtll cry up the Goodness of Men; but who 
is there that is, as he should, affected with the goodness 
of God? 

We seldom sit down to meat, but we eat and leave; 
so there is in Jesus Christ more Merit and Righteousness 
than the whole World has need of. 

When the Interpreter had done, he takes them out into Of the 
his Garden again, and had them to a Tree whose inside ;, rotten 
was all rotten and gone, and yet it grew and had Leaves, at heart 
Then said Mercy, What means this ? This Tree, said he, 
whose outside is fair, and whose inside is rotten, it is to 
which many may be compared that are in the Garden of 
God; who with their mouths speak high in behalf of 
God, but indeed will do nothing for him; whose Leaves 


They are 
at supper 

Talk at 

A repeti- 
tion of 


are fair, but their heart good for nothing but to be tinder 
for the Devil's tinder-box. 

Now Supper was ready, the Table spread, and all things 
set on the board; so they sate down and did eat when one 
had given thanks. And the Interpreter did usually enter- 
tain those that lodged with him with Musick at Meals, 
so the Minstrels played. There was also one that did 
sing, and a very fine voice he had. His Song was this: 

The Lxjrd is only my support. 

And he that doth me feed; 
How can I then want anything 

Whereof I stand in need? 

When the Song and Musick was ended, the Interpreter 
asked Christiana, What it was that at first did move her 
to betake herself to a Pilgrim's life? 

Christiana answered. First, the loss of my Husband 
came into my mind, at which I was heartily grieved; but 
all that was but natural affection. Then after that came 
the Troubles and Pilgrimage of my Husband's into my 
mind, and also how like a churl I had carried it to him as 
to that. So guilt took hold of my mind, and would have 
drawn me into the Pond; but that opportunely I had a 
Dream of the well-being of my Husband, and a Letter 
sent me by the King of that Country where my Husband 
dwells, to come to him. The Dream and the Letter 
together so wrought upon my mind, that they forced me 
to this way. 

Inter. But met you with no opposition afore you set 
out of doors? 

Chris. Yes, a Neighbor of mine, one Mrs Timorous 
(she was akin to him that would have persuaded my 
Husband to go back for fear of the Lions). She all to- 
befooled^ me for as she called it my intended desperate 
adventure; she also urged what she could to dishearten 
me to it, the hardship and Troubles that my Husband 
met with in the way: but all this I got over pretty well. 
*The force of the "to" is intensive. 


But a Dream that I had of two ill-looked ones, that I 
thought did plot how to make me miscarry in my Jour- 
ney, that hath troubled me much; yea, it still runs in my 
mind, and makes me afraid of every one that I meet, lest 
they should meet me to do me a mischief, and to turn 
me out of the way. Yea, I may tell my Lord, tho' I would 
not have everybody know it, that between this and the 
Gate by which we got into the way, we were both so 
sorely assaulted, that we were made to cry out Murder, 
and the two that made this assault upon us were hke the 
two that I saw in my Dream. 

Then said the Interpreter, Thy beginning is good, thy A question 
latter end shall greatly increase. So he addressed himself Mercy 
to Mercy, and said unto her, And what moved thee to 
come hither sweet heart ? 

Then Mercy blushed and trembled, and for a while 
continued silent. 

Inter. Then said he. Be not afraid, only believe, and 
speak thy mind. 

Mercy. So she began and said. Truly Sir, my want of Mercy's 
Experience is that that makes me covet to be in silence, 
and that also that fills me with fears of coming short at 
last. I cannot tell of Visions and Dreams as my friend 
Christiana can, nor know I what it is to mourn for my 
refusing of the counsel of those that were good Relations. 

Inter. What was it then, dear heart, that hath prevailed 
with thee to do as thou hast done."* 

Mercy. Why, when our friend here was packing up to 
be gone from our Town, I and another went accidently to 
see her. So we knocked at the door and went in. When 
we were within and seeing what she was doing, we asked 
what was her meaning. She said she was sent for to go 
to her Husband; and then she up and told us how she had 
seen him in a Dream, dwelling in a curious place among 
Immortals, wearing a Crown, playing upon a Harp, eat- 
ing and drinking at his Prince's Table, and singing 
Praises to him for bringing him hither, S-c. Now me- 


for bed 

night's rest 

The bath 




thought while she was teUing these things unto us, my 
heart burned within me; and I said in my heart, If this 
be true, I will leave my Father and my Mother and the 
Land of my Nativity, and will, if I may, go along with 

So I asked her further of the truth of these things, and 
if she would let me go with her; for I saw now that there 
was no dwelling, but with the danger of ruine, any longer 
in our Town. But yet I came away with a heavy heart, 
not for that 1 was unwilling to come away, but for that 
so many of my Relations were left behind. And I am 
come with all the desire of my heart, and will go, if I 
may, with Christiana, unto her Husband and his King. 

Inter. Thy setting out is good, for thou hast given 
credit to the truth. Thou art a Ruth, who did for the 
love she bore to Naomi and to the Lord her God, leave 
Father and Mother and the Land of her Nativity, to 
come out, and go with a people that she knew not hereto- 
fore. The Lord recompense thy tvorl^, and a full reward 
be given thee of the Lord God of Israel, under whose 
Wings thou art come to trust. 

Now Supper was ended, and Preparation was made for 
Bed; the Women were laid singly alone, and the Boys by 
themselves. Now when Mercy was in Bed, she could not 
sleep for joy, for that now her doubts of missing at last 
were removed further from her than ever they were be- 
fore. So she lay blessing and praising God who had had 
such favour for her. 

In the morning they arose with the Sun, and prepared 
themselves for their departure; but the Interpreter would 
have them tarry awhile, for said he, you must orderly go 
from hence. Then said he to the Damsel that at first 
opened unto them, Take them and have them into the 
Garden to the Bath, and there wash them, and make 
them clean from the soil which they gathered by travel- 
ling. Then Innocent the Damsel took them, and had 
them into the Garden, and brought them to the Bath; so 


she told them that there they must wash and be clean, 

for so her Master would have the Women to do that 

called at his house, as they were going on Pilgrimage. 

They then went in and washed, yea they and the Boys They wash 

and all; and they came out of that Bath, not only sweet "^ ' 

and clean, but also much enlivened and strengthened in 

their joints. So when they came in, they looked fairer a 

deal than when they went out to the washing. 

When they were returned out of the Garden from the ^f^, "' 
Bath, the Interpreter took them and looked upon them 
and said unto them, Fair as the Moon. Then he called for 
the Seal wherewith they used to be sealed that were 
washed in his Bath. So the Seal was brought, and he set 
his Mark upxjn them, that they might be known in the 
places whither they were yet to go. Now the Seal was 
the contents and sum of the Passover which the Children 
of Israel did eat when they came out from the land of 
Egypt, and the Mark was set between their eyes. This 
Seal greatly added to their beauty, for it was an ornament 
to their faces. It also added to their gravity, and made 
their countenances more like them of Angels. 

Then said the Interpreter again to the Damsel that "^^V^ 
waited upon these Women, Go into the Vestry and fetch 
out Garments for these people; so she went and fetched 
out white Raiment, and laid it down before him; so he 
commanded them to put it on. It was fine linen, white 
and clean. When the Women were thus adorned, they 
seemed to be a terror one to the other, for that they could 
not see that glory each one on herself which they could 
see in each other. Now therefore they began to esteem 
each other better than themselves. For you are fairer than True 
I am, said one; and you are more comely than I am, said "™ '*'' 
another. The Children also stood amazed to see into what 
fashion they were brought. 

The Interpreter then called for a Man-servant of his, 
one Great-heart, and bid him take sword and helmet and 
shield; and take these my Daughters, said he, and conduct 


A comment 
upon what 
was said 
at the 
gate, or a 
of our 
bcini; jus- 
tified by 


them to the house called Beautiful, at which place they 
will rest next. So he took his Weapons and went before 
them, and the Interpreter said, God speed. Those also 
that belonged to the Family sent them away with many 
a good wish. So they went on their way and sung, 

This place has been our second stage. 
Here we have heard and seen 
Those good things that from age to age. 
To others hid have been. 

The Dunghill-raker, the Spider, Hen, 
The Chicken too to me 
Hath taught a lesson; let me then 
Conformed to it be. 

The Butcher, Garden, and the Field, 
The Robin and his bait, 
Also the Rotten Tree doth yield 
Me argument of weight. 

To move me for 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, and Great- 
heart went before them; so they went and came to the 
place where Christian's Burden fell ofl his back and tum- 
bled into a Sepulchre. Here then they made a pause, and 
here also they blessed God. Now said Christiana, it comes 
to my mind what was said to us at the Gate, to wit, that 
we should have pardon by tvord and deed: by tvord, that 
is, by the promise; by deed, to wit, in the way it was 
obtained. What the promise is, of that I know something; 
but what it is to have pardon by deed, or in the way that 
it was obtained, Mr Great-heart, I suppose you know; 
wherefore if you please let us hear your discourse thereof. 

Great-heart. Pardon by the deed done, is pardon ob- 
tained by some one for another that hath need thereof, 
not by the person pardoned, but in the way, saith another, 
in which I have obtained it. So then to speak to the 
question more large, the pardon that you and Mercy and 
these Boys have attained, was obtained by another, to wit, 


by him that let you in at the Gate; and he hath obtain'd 
it in this double way, he has performed Righteousness to 
cover you, and spilt Blood to wash you in. 

Chris. But if he parts with his Righteousness to us, 
what will he have for himself? 

Great-heart. He has more Righteousness than you have 
need of, or than he needeth himself. 

Chris. Pray make that appear. 

Great-heart. With all my heart; but first I must pre- 
mise that he of whom we are now about to speak is one 
that has not his fellow. He has two Natures in one 
Person, plain to be distinguished, impossible to be 
divided. Unto each of these Natures a Righteousness 
belongeth, and each Righteousness is essential to that 
Nature; so that one may as easily cause the Nature to be 
extinct, as to separate its Justice or Righteousness from 
it. Of these Righteousnesses therefore we are not made 
partakers, so as that they, or any of them, should be put 
upon us that we might be made just, and live thereby. 
Besides these there is a Righteousness which this Person 
has, as these two Natures are joined in one. And this is 
not the Righteousness of the Godhead, as distinguished 
from the Manhood; nor the Righteousness of the Man- 
hood, as distinguished from the Godhead; but a Right- 
eousness which standeth in the union of both Natures, 
and may properly be called, the Righteousness that is 
essential to his being prepared of God to the capacity 
of the Mediatory Office which he was to be intrusted 
with. If he parts with his first Righteousness, he parts 
with his Godhead; if he parts with his second Righteous- 
ness, he parts with the purity of his Manhood; if he parts 
with this third, he parts with that perfection that capaci- 
tates him to the Office of Mediation. He has therefore 
another Righteousness, which standeth in performance, 
or obedience to a revealed will, and that is that he puts 
upon Sinners, and that by which their sins are covered. 
Wherefore he saith, as by one man's disobedience many 


were made Sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many 
be made Righteous. 

Chris. But are the other Righteousnesses of no use to 

Great-heart. Yes, for though they are essential to his 
Natures and Office, and so cannot be communicated unto 
another, yet it is by venue of them that the Righteousness 
that justifies is for that purpose efficacious. The Right- 
eousness of his Godhead gives virtue to his Obedience; 
the Righteousness of his Manhood giveth capabiUty to 
his obedience to justify; and the Righteousness that stand- 
eth in the union of these two Natures to his Office, giveth 
authority to that Righteousness to do the work for which 
it is ordained. 

So then here is a Righteousness that Christ as God has 
no need of, for he is God without it; here is a Righteous- 
ness that Christ as Man has no need of to make him so, 
for he is perfect Man without it; again, here is a Right- 
eousness that Christ as God-man has no need of, for he is 
perfectly so without it. Here then is a Righteousness that 
Christ, as God, as Man, as God-man, has no need of, with 
reference to himself, and therefore he can spare it; a justi- 
fying Righteousness that he for himself wanteth not, 
and therefore he giveth it away; hence 'tis called the gift 
of Righteousness. This Righteousness, since Christ Jesus 
the Lord has made himself under the Law, must be given 
away: for the Law doth not only bind him that is under 
it to do justly, but to use Charity. Wherefore he must, he 
ought by the Law, if he hath two Coats, to give one to 
him that hath none. Now our Lord indeed hath two 
Coats, one for himself, and one to spare; wherefore he 
freely bestows one upon those that have none. And thus 
Christiana, and Mercy, and the rest of you that are here, 
doth your pardon come by deed, or by the work of an- 
other man. Your Lord Christ is he that has worked, and 
has given away what he wrought for to the next poor 
beggar he meets. 


But again, in order to pardon by deed, there must 
something be paid to God as a price, as well as something 
prepared to cover us withal. Sin has delivered us up to the 
just curse of a righteous Law; now from this curse we 
must be justified by way of redemption, a price being paid 
for the harms we have done; and this is by the Blood of 
your Lord, who came and stood in your place and stead, 
and died your death for your transgressions. Thus has 
he ransomed you from your transgressions by Blood, and 
covered your polluted and deformed souls with Right- 
eousness. For the sake of which God passeth by you, 
and will not hurt you when he comes to judge the World. 

Chris. This is brave. Now I see that there was some- Christiana 
thing to be learned by our being pardoned by word and ^j^ jj^j^ 
deed. Good Mercy, let us labour to keep this in mind, way of re- 
and my Children, do you remember it also. But Sir, was ^"*'' '°° 
not this it that made my good Christian's Burden fall 
from off his shoulder, and that made him give three leaps 
for joy? 

Great-heart. Yes, 'twas the belief of this that cut those How the 
strings that could not be cut by other means, and 'twas ,h""^und 
to give him a proof of the vertue of this, that he was Christian's 
suffered to carry his Burden to the Cross. to hUn 

Chris. I thought so, for tho' my heart was lightful and were cut 
joyous before, yet it is ten times more lightsome and 
joyous now. And I am persuaded by what I have felt, 
tho' I have felt but little as yet, that if the most burdened 
man in the world was here, and did see and believe as I 
now do, 'twould make his heart the more merry and 

Great-heart. There is not only comfort, and the ease of How af- 
a Burden brought to us, by the sight and consideration (^^st is 
of these, but an indcared affection begot in us by it; for ^s°^ 'o 
who can, if he doth but once think that pardon comes, not 
only by promise but thus, but be affected by the way and 
means of his redemption, and so with the man that hath 
wrought it for him? 

the soul 


Firjt Part, 
p. 41 

Cause of 

To be af- 
fected with 
Christ and 
with what 
he has 
done, is a 

and Sloth, 
and Pre- 
and why 


Chris. True, methinks it makes my heart bleed to 
think that he should bleed for me. Oh! thou loving One. 
Oh! thou blessed One. Thou deservest to have me, thou 
hast bought me: thou deservest to have me all; thou hast 
paid for me ten thousand times more than I am worth. 
No marvel that this made the water stand in my Hus- 
band's eyes, and that it made him trudge so nimbly on; 
I am persuaded he wished me with him; but vile wretch 
that I was, I let him come all alone. O Mercy, that thy 
Father and Mother were here; yea, and Mrs Timorous 
also; nay, I wish now with all my heart, that here was 
Madam Wanton too. Surely, surely, their hearts would be 
affected; nor could the fear of the one, nor the pxiwerful 
lusts of the other, prevail with them to go home again, 
and to refuse to become good Pilgrims. 

Great-heart. You speak now in the warmth of your 
affections: will it, think you, be always thus with you? 
Besides, this is not communicated to every one, nor to 
every one that did see your Jesus bleed. There was that 
stood by, and that saw the Blood run from his heart to 
the ground, and yet were so far off this, that instead of 
lamenting, they laughed at him; and instead of becoming 
his Disciples, did harden their hearts against him. So that 
all that you have, my Daughters, you have by a peculiar 
impression made by a divine contemplating upon what I 
have spoken to you. Remember that 'twas told you, that 
the Hen by her common call gives no meat to the 
Chicf(ens. This you have therefore by a special Grace. 

Now I saw still in my Dream, that they went on until 
they were come to the place that Simple and Sloth and 
Presumption lay and slept in, when Christian went by on 
Pilgrimage. And behold they were hanged up in irons, a 
little way off on the other side. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy to him that was their Guide 
and Conductor, What are those three men ? and for what 
are they hanged there? 

Great-heart. These three men were men of very bad 



qualities, they had no mind to be Pilgrims themselves, 
and whosoever they could they hindered. They were for 
sloth and folly themselves, and whoever they could per- 
suade with, they made so too, and withal taught them to 
presume that they should do well at last. They were 
asleep when Christian went by, and now you go by they 
are hanged. 

Behold here how the slothful are a sign. 

Hung up 'cause holy ways they did decline. 

See here too how the child doth play the man, 

And weak grow strong when Great-heart leads the van. 

Mercy. But could they persuade any to be of their 
opinion ? 

Great-heart. Yes, they turned several out of the way. Their 
There was Slow-pace that they persuaded to do as they. 
They also prevailed with one Short-wind, with one No- 
heart, with one Linger-after-lust, and with one Sleepy- 
head, and with a young woman her name was Dull, to Who they 
turn out of the way and become as they. Besides they u[x>n'to 
brought up an ill report of your Lord, persuading others turn <>"» 
that he was a Task-master. They also brought up an evil 
report of the good Land, saying 'twas not half so good 
as some pretend it was. They also began to vilify his 
Servants, and to count the very best of them meddlesome 
troublesome busy-bodies. Further, they would call the 
Bread of God Husl{s, the Comforts of his Children 
Fancies, the Travel and Labour of Pilgrims things to no 

Chris. Nay, said Christiana, if they were such, they 
shall never be bewailed by me. They have but what they 
deserve, and I think it is well that they hang so near the 
High-way that others may see and take warning. But 
had it not been well if their crimes had been ingraven in 
some plate of iron or brass, and left here, even where they 
did their mischiefs, for a caution to other bad men? 

Great-heart. So it is, as you well may perceive if you 
will go a little to the Wall. 



Mercy. No, no, let them hang, and their names rot, 
and their crimes live for ever against them. I think it a 
high favour that they were hanged afore we came hither, 
who knows else what they might a done to such poor 
women as we are? Then she turned it into a Song saying, 

First Part, 

P- 45 

It is 

of good 
doctrine in 

barred up, 
will not 
keep all 
from going 
in them 

Now then you three, hang there and be a sign 
To all that shall against the truth combine. 
And let him that comes after fear this end. 
If unto Pilgrims he is not a Friend. 
And thou, my soul, of all such men beware. 
That unto holiness opposers are. 

Thus they went on, till they came at the foot of the 
Hill Difficulty, where again their good Friend Mr Great- 
heart, took an occasion to tell them of what happened 
there when Christian himself went by. So he had them 
first to the Spring. Lo, saith he, this is the Spring that 
Christian drank of before he went up this Hill, and then 
'twas clear and good, but now 'tis dirty with the feet of 
some that are not desirous that Pilgrims here should 
quench their thirst. Thereat Mercy said. And why so 
envious, tro.^ But said the Guide, It will do, if taken up, 
and put into a vessel that is sweet and good; for then 
the dirt will sink to the bottom, and the water will come 
out by itself more clear. Thus therefore Christiana and 
her Companions were compelled to do. They took it up, 
and put it into an earthen pot, and so let it stand till 
the dirt was gone to the bottom, and then they drank 

Next he shewed them the two by-ways that were at 
the foot of the Hill, where Formality and Hypocrisy lost 
themselves. And said he, these are dangerous Paths. Two 
were here cast away when Christian came by; and al- 
though, as you see, these ways are since stopped up with 
chains, posts and a ditch, yet there are that will chuse to 
adventure here, rather than take the pains to go up this 


Chris. The way of transgressors is hard. 'Tis a wonder 
that they can get into those ways without danger of break- 
ing their necks. 

Great-heart. They will venture; yea, if at any time any 
of the King's servants doth happen to see them, and doth 
call unto them, and tell them that they are in the wrong 
ways, and do bid them beware the danger, then they will 
railingly return them answer and say. As for the word 
that thou hast spo/^en unto us in the name of the King, 
we will not hearl^en unto thee; but we will certainly do 
whatsoever thing goeth out of our own mouths, &c. Nay 
if you look a little farther, you shall see that these ways 
are made cautionary enough, not only by these posts and 
ditch and chain, but also by being hedged up; yet they 
will chuse to go there. 

Chris. They are idle, they love not to take pains, uphill "^ reason 
way is unpleasant to them. So it is fulfilled unto them as j,, choose 
it is written, The way of the slothful man is a Hedge of '» R" '" 
Thorns. Yea, they will rather chuse to walk upon a 
Snare, than to go up this Hill, and the rest of this way to 
the City. 

Then they set forward, and began to go up the Hill, ""^^ *•'" 
and up the Hill they went; but before they got to the top, pilgrims 
Christiana began to pant, and said, I dare say this is a •" •' 
breathing Hill. No marvel if they that love their ease 
more than their souls, chuse to themselves a smoother 
way. Then said Mercy, I must sit down; also the least of 
the Children began to cry. Come, come, said Great-heart, 
sit not down here, for a little above is the Prince's Arbor. 
Then took he the little Boy by the hand, and led him up 

When they were come to the Arbor, they were very They sit 
willing to sit down, for they were all in a pelting heat, ^bo,* 
Then said Mercy, How sweet is rest to them that labour. 
And how good is the Prince of Pilgrims to provide such 
resting-places for them. Of this Arbor I have heard much, R"» P»rt> 
but I never saw it before. But here let us beware of ^^' ^^' ^ 


The little 
boy's an- 
fwer to 
the guide, 
and also 
to Mercy 

Which is 
up hill or 
down hill? 




sleeping; for as I have heard, for that it cost poor Christian 

Then said Mr Great-heart to the Httle ones, Come my 
pretty Boys, how do you do? What think you now of 
going on Pilgrimage? Sir, said the least, I was almost 
beat out of heart, but I thank you for lending me a hand 
at my need. And I remember now what my Mother has 
told me, namely. That the way to Heaven is as up a Lad- 
der, and the way to Hell is as down a Hill. But I had 
rather go up the Ladder to Life, than down the Hill to 

Then said Mercy, But the Proverb is. To go down the 
Hill is easy. But James said (for that was his name) The 
day is coming when in my opinion going down Hill will 
be the hardest of all. 'Tis a good Boy, said his Master, 
thou hast given her a right answer. Then Mercy smiled, 
but the little Boy did blush. 

Chris. Come, said Christiana, will you eat a bit, a little 
to sweeten your mouths, while you sit here to rest your 
legs ? For I have here a piece of Pomgranate, which Mr 
Interpreter put in my hand, just when I came out of his 
doors. He gave me also a piece of an Hony<omb, and a 
little Bottle of Spirits. I thought he gave you something, 
said Mercy, because he called you a to-side. Yes, so he 
did, said the other; but Mercy, it shall still be, as I said it 
should, when at first we came from home, thou shalt be 
a sharer in all the good that I have, because thou so will- 
ingly didst become my Companion. Then she gave to 
them, and they did eat, both Mercy and the Boys. And 
said Christiana to Mr Great-heart, Sir, will you do as we ? 
But he answered, You are going on Pilgrimage, and 
presently I shall return: much good may what you have 
do to you, at home I eat the same every day. Now when 
they had eaten and drank, and had chatted a little longer, 
their Guide said to them. The day wears away, if you 
think good, let us prepare to be going. So they got up to 
go, and the little Boys went before. But Christiana forgat 

pp. 47. 48 


to take her Bottle of Spirits with her, so she sent her little Christiana 
Boy back to fetch it. Then said Mercy, I think this is a her bottle 
losing place. Here Christian lost his Roll, and here Chris- of sp'"t* 
tiana left her Bottle behind her. Sir, what is the cause of 
this."* So their Guide made answer and said, The cause 
is sleep or forgetfulness: some sleep when they should 
keep aiva/^e, and some forget when they should remem- 
ber; and this is the very cause, why often at the resting- 
places, some Pilgrims in some things come off losers. Mark thb 
Pilgrims should watch, and remember what they have 
already received under their greatest enjoyment; but for 
want of doing so, oft-times their Rejoicing ends in Tears, Rw Pat^ 
and their Sun-shine in a Cloud: witness the story of 
Christian at this place. 

When they were come to the place where Mistrust and 
Timorous met Christian to persuade him to go back for 
fear of the Lions, they perceived as it were a Stage, and 
before it towards the Road a broad plate with a Copy of 
Verses written thereon, and underneath, the reason of 
raising up of that Stage in that place rendered. The 
Verses were these: 

Let him that sees this Stage take heed 
Unto his Heart and Tongue; 
Lest if he do not, here he speed 
As some have long agone. 

The words underneath the Verses were. This Stage 
was built to punish such upon, who through timorous- 
ness or mistrust, shall be afraid to go further on Pil- 
grimage. Also on this Stage both Mistrust and Tim- 
orous were burned through the Tongue with an hot 
Iron, for endeavouring to hinder Christian in his Jour- 

Then said Mercy, This is much like to the saying of the 
Beloved, What shall be given unto thee? or what shall 
be done unto thee, thou false Tongue? Sharp Arrows of 
the mighty, with coals of Juniper. 


First Part, 

p. 48 

An emblem 
of those 
that no on 
when there 
is no dan- 
ger, but 
shrink when 

Of Grim 
the Giant, 
and of his 
the lions 


So they went on, till they came within sight of the 
Lions. Now Mr Great-heart was a strong man, so he was 
not afraid of a Lion; but yet when they were come up to 
the place where the Lions were, the Boys that went before 
were glad to cringe behind, for they were afraid of the 
Lions; so they stept back, and went behind. At this their 
Guide smiled, and said, How now, my Boys, do you love 
to go before when no danger doth approach, and love to 
come behind so soon as the Lions appear? 

Now as they went up, Mr Great-heart drew his Sword, 
with intent to make a way for the Pilgrims in spite of the 
Lions. Then there appeared one, that it seems, had taken 
upon him to back the Lions; and he said to the Pilgrims' 
Guide, What is the cause of your coming hither? Now 
the name of that man was Grim, or Bloody-man, because 
of his slaying of Pilgrims, and he was of the race of the 

Great-heart. Then said the Pilgrims' Guide, These 
Women and Children are going on Pilgrimage, and this 
is the way they must go, and go it they shall in spite of 
thee and the Lions. 

Grim. This is not their way, neither shall they go there- 
in. I am come forth to withstand them, and to that end 
will back the Lions. 

Now to say truth, by reason of the fierceness of the 
Lions, and of the grim carriage of him that did back 
them, this way had of late lain much unoccupied, and 
was almost all grown over with Grass. 

Chris. Then said Christiana, Tho' the High-ways have 
been un-occupied heretofore, and tho' the Travellers have 
been made in time past to walk through by-paths, it 
must not be so now I am risen, now I am risen a Mother 
in Israel. 

Grim. Then he swore by the Lions, but it should, and 
therefore bid them turn aside, for they should not have 
passage there. 

Great-heart. But their Guide made first his approach 


unto Grim, and laid so heavily at him with his Sword, 
that he forced him to a retreat. 

Grim. Then said he (that attempted to back the Lions) 
Will you slay me upon mine own ground? 

Great-heart. 'Tis the King's High-way that we are in, A fight 


and in his way it is that thou hast placed thy Lions; but orim and 

these Women and these Children, tho' weak, shall hold on ^'^**' 

their way in spite of thy Lions. And with that he gave 

him again a downright blow, and brought him upon his 

knees. With this blow he also broke his Helmet, and with 

the next he cut off an arm. Then did the Giant roar 

so hideously, that his voice frighted the Women, and yet 

they were glad to see him lie sprawling upon the ground. 

Now the Lions were chained, and so of themselves could ^h^. 

do nothing. Wherefore when old Grim that intended to 

back them was dead, Mr Great-heart said to the Pilgrims, 

Come now and follow me, and no hurt shall happen to 

you from the Lions. They therefore went on, but the T^'V P»" 

' Vt.wr M«M la AMU 

Women trembled as they passed by them; the Boys also 
looked as if they would die, but they all got by without 
further hurt. 

Now then they were within sight of the Porter's Lodge, Th«y <^o'"« 
and they soon came up unto it; but they made the more ter'stoS^ 
haste after this to go thither, because 'tis dangerous 
travelling there in the Night. So when they were come to 
the Gate, the Guide knocked, and the Porter cried, Who 
is there? But as soon as the Guide had said, It is I, he 
knew his voice, and came down (for the Guide had oft 
before that come thither as a Conductor of Pilgrims). 
When he was come down, he opened the Gate, and see- 
ing the Guide standing just before it (for he saw not the 
Women, for they were behind him) he said unto 
him, How now, Mr Great-heart, what is your business 
here so late to-night? I have brought, said he, some Pil- 
grims hither, where by my Lord's commandment they 
must lodge. I had been here some time ago, had I not been 
opposed by the Giant that did use to back the Lions; but 


by the lions 


attempts to 
go back 

The pilgrims 
implore his 
company still 

Help lost 
for want 
of asking 

First Part, 
P- 49 

makes her- 
self known 
to the 
porter; he 
tells it to 
a damsel 

Joy at 
the noise 
of the 


I after a long and tedious combat with him, have cut 
him off, and have brought the Pilgrims hither in 

Porter. Will you not go in, and stay till morning? 

Great-heart. No, I will return to my Lord to-night. 

Chris. Oh Sir, I know not how to be willing you should 
leave us in our Pilgrimage, you have been so faithful and 
so loving to us, you have fought so stoutly for us, you 
have been so hearty in counselling of us, that I shall 
never forget your favour towards us. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy, O that we might have thy 
company to our Journey's end. How can such poor 
Women as we hold out in a way so full of troubles as 
this way is, without a Friend and Defender? 

James. Then said James, the youngest of the Boys, 
Pray Sir, be persuaded to go with us, and help us, because 
we are so weak, and the way so dangerous as it is. 

Great-heart. I am at my Lord's commandment. If he 
shall allot me to be your Guide quite through, I will will- 
ingly wait upon you. But here you failed at first; for 
when he bid me come thus far with you, then you should 
have begged me of him to have gone quite through with 
you, and he would have granted your request. However 
at present I must withdraw, and so, good Christiana, 
Mercy, and my brave Children, Adieu. 

Then the Porter, Mr Watchful, asked Christiana of her 
Country, and of her Kindred. And she said, I came 
from the City of Destruction, I am a Widow woman, and 
my Husband is dead, his name was Christian the Pil- 
grim. How, said the Porter, was he your Husband ? Yes, 
said she, and these are his Children; and this, pointing to 
Mercy, is one of my Towns-women. Then the Porter 
rang his bell, as at such times he is wont, and there came 
to the door one of the Damsels, whose name was Humble- 
mind. And to her the Porter said. Go tell it within that 
Christiana the Wife of Christian, and her Children, are 
come hither on Pilgrimage. She went in therefore and 


told it. But O what a noise for gladness was there within, 
when the Damsel did but drop that word out of her 

So they came with haste to the Porter, for Christiana chrisuaiu' 
stood still at the door. Then some of the most grave said kindled at 
unto her, Come in Christiana, come in thou Wife of that '^le s'gbt 
good man, come in thou blessed woman, come in with mother 
all that are with thee. So she went in, and they followed 
her that were her Children and her Companions. Now 
when they were gone in, they were had into a very large 
room, where they were bidden to sit down; so they sat 
down, and the Chief of the house was called to see and 
welcome the Guests. Then they came in, and understand- 
ing who they were, did salute each other with a kiss, and 
said. Welcome ye Vessels of the Grace of God, welcome 
to us your Friends. 

Now because it was somewhat late, and because the 
Pilgrims were weary with their Journey, and also made 
faint with the sight of the Fight and of the terrible Lions, 
therefore they desired as soon as might be, to prepare to 
go to rest. Nay, said those of the Family, refresh your- 
selves first with a morsel of Meat. For they had prepared 
for them a Lamb, with the accustomed Sauce belonging 
thereto; for the Porter had heard before of their coming, 
and had told it to them within. So when they had supped, 
and ended their Prayer with a Psalm, they desired they 
might go to rest. But let us, said Christiana, if we may be ^"" ^"*' 
so bold as to chuse, be in that Chamber that was my 
Husband's when he was here. So they had them up 
thither, and they lay all in a room. When they were at Chrisfj 
rest, Christiana and Mercy entred into discourse about -^ i^^\ 
things that were convenient. pilgrinu 

Chris. Little did I think once, that when my Husband 
went on Pilgrimage, I should ever a followed. 

Mercy. And you as little thought of lying in his Bed 
and in his Chamber to rest, as you do now. 

Chris. And much less did I ever think of seeing his 


Mercy did 
laugh in 
her sleep 


What her 
dream was 


face with comfort, and of worshipping the Lord the King 
with him, and yet now I believe I shall. 

Mercy. Hark, don't you hear a noise? 

Chris. Yes, 'tis as I believe, a noise of Musick for joy 
that we are here. 

Mercy. Wonderful! Musick in the House, Musick in 
the Heart, and Musick also in Heaven, for joy that we 
are here. 

Thus they talked awhile, and then betook themselves to 
sleep. So in the morning, when they were awake, Chris- 
tiana said to Mercy: 

Chris. What was the matter that you did laugh in your 
sleep to-night. I suppose you was in a Dream. 

Mercy. So I was, and a sweet Dream it was, but are 
you sure I laughed? 

Chris. Yes, you laughed heartily; but prithee Mercy, 
tell me thy dream. 

Mercy. I was a dreamed that I sat all alone in a solitary 
place, and was bemoaning of the hardness of my Heart. 

Now I had not sat there long, but methought many 
were gathered about me, to see me, and to hear what it 
was that I said. So they hearkened, and I went on be- 
moaning the hardness of my Heart. At this some of them 
laughed at me, some called me Fool, and some began to 
thrust me about. With that, methought I looked up, and 
saw one coming with Wings towards me. So he came 
directly to me, and said, Mercy, what aileth thee? Now 
when he had heard me make my complaint, he said. 
Peace he to thee. He also wiped mine eyes with his 
Handkerchief, and clad me in Silver and Gold: he put 
a Chain about my Neck, and Ear-rings in mine Ears, and 
a beautiful Crown upon my Head. Then he took me by 
the Hand, and said Mercy, come after me. So he went 
up, and I followed, till we came at a Golden Gate. Then 
he knocked; and when they within had opened, the 
man went in, and I followed him up to a Throne, upon 
which one sat, and he said to me, Welcome Daughter. 


The place looked bright and twinkling like the Stars, or 
rather like the Sun, and I thought that I saw your Hus- 
band there. So I awoke from my Dream. But did I 
laugh ? 

Chris. Laugh: ay, and well you might, to see yourself 
so well. For you must give me leave to tell you, that I 
believe it was a good Dream, and that as you have begun 
to find the first part true, so you shall find the second 
at last. Cod speal^s once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it 
not. In a Dream, in a Vision of the night, when deep 
sleep falleth upon men, in shimbring upon the bed. We 
need not, when a-bed, lie awake to talk with God. He can 
visit us while we sleep, and cause us then to hear his 
voice. Our heart oft-times wakes when we sleep; and 
God can speak to that, either by words, by Proverbs, by 
Signs and Similitudes, as well as if one was awake. 

Mercy. Well, I am glad of my Dream, for I hope ere Mercy 
long to see it fulfilled, to the making of me laugh again, jrcam 

Chris. I think it is now high time to rise, and to know 
what we must do. 

Mercy. Pray, if they invite us to stay a while, let us 
willingly accept of the proffer. I am the willinger to stay 
a while here, to grow better acquainted with these Maids. 
Methinks Prudence Piety and Charity have very comely 
and sober countenances. 

Chris. We shall see what they will do. So when they 
were up and ready, they came down. And they asked 
one another of their rest, and if it was comfortable or not. 

Mercy. Very good, said Mercy; it was one of the best 
night's Lodging that ever I had in my life. 

Then said Prudence and Piety, If you will be p)ersuaded They stay 
to stay here a while, you shall have what the house will ^^ """* 

Char. Ay, and that with a very good will, said Charity. Prudence 
So they consented, and stayed there about a month or caTecWse 
above, and became very profitable one to another. And Christiana's 
because Prudence would see how Christiana had brought 

228 pilgrim's progress 

up her Children, she asked leave of her to catechise them. 

So she gave her free consent. Then she began at the 

youngest, whose name was fames. 

Jama Prudence. And she said, Come fames, canst thou tell 

catechised , i i ■< 

who made thee: 

fames. God the Father, God the Son, and God the 
Holy Ghost. 

Prud. Good Boy. And canst thou tell me who saves 

fames. God the Father, God the Son, and God the 
Holy Ghost. 

Prud. Good Boy still. But how doth God the Father 
save thee? 

fames. By his Grace. 

Prud. How doth God the Son save thee? 

fames. By his Righteousness, Death, and Blood, and 

Prud. And how doth God the Holy Ghost save 

fames. By his Illumination, by his Renovation, and 
by his Preservation. 

Then said Prudence to Christiana, You are to be com- 
mended for thus bringing up your Children. I suppose 
I need not ask the rest these questions, since the young- 
est of them can answer them so well. I will therefore now 
apply myself to the youngest next. 
Joseph Prud. Then she said, Come foseph (for his name was 

foseph) will you let me catechise you? 

foseph. With all my heart. 

Prud. What is Man ? 

foseph. A Reasonable Creature, so made by God, as 
my Brother said. 

Prud. What is supposed by this word saved? 

foseph. That Man by Sin has brought himself into a 
state of Captivity and Misery. 

Prud. What is supposed by his being saved by the 
Trinity ? 


Joseph. That Sin is so great and mighty a Tyrant, that 
none can pull us out of its clutches but God; and that 
God is so good and loving to man, as to pull him indeed 
out of this miserable state. 

Prud. What is God's design in saving of poor Men? 

Joseph. The glorifying of his Name, of his Grace and 
Justice, &e. and the everlasting Happiness of his Crea- 

Prud. Who are they that must be saved. 

Joseph. Those that accept of his Salvation. 

Prud. Good Boy, Joseph, thy Mother has taught thee 
well, and thou hast hearkened to what she hath said unto 

Then said Prudence to Samuel, who was the eldest but 

Prud. Come Samuel, are you willing that I should Samuel 
catechise you also? 

Samuel. Yes, forsooth, if you please. 

Prud. What is Heaven? 

Sam. A place and state most blessed, because God 
dwelleth there. 

Prud. What is Hell? 

5am. A place and state most woful, because it is the 
dwelling place of Sin, the Devil, and Death. 

Prud. Why wouldst thou go to Heaven? 

Sam. That I may see God, and serve him without 
weariness; that I may see Christ, and love him everlast- 
ingly; that I may have that fulness of the Holy Spirit in 
me that I can by no means here enjoy. 

Prud. A very good Boy also, and one that has learned 

Then she addressed herself to the eldest, whose name Matthew 
was Matthew; and she said to him, Come Matthew, shall 
I also catechise you? 

Matthew. With a very good will. 

Prud. I ask then, if there was ever anything that had a 
being antecedent to or before God, 



upon the 
of the boys 

hat a 


Matt. No, for God is eternal, nor is there anything 
excepting himself that had a being until the beginning of 
the first day. For in six days the Lord made Heaven and 
Earth, the Sea and all that in them is. 

Prud. What do you think of the Bible? 

Matt. It is the Holy Word of God. 

Prud. Is there nothing written therein but what you 
understand ? 

Matt. Yes a great deal. 

Prud. What do you do when you meet with such places 
therein that you do not understand ? 

Matt. I think God is wiser than I. I pray also that he 
will please to let me know all therein that he knows will 
be for my good. 

Prud. How believe you as touching the Resurrection of 
the Dead? 

Matt. I believe they shall rise, the same that was buried, 
the same in nature, tho' not in corruption. And I believe 
this upon a double account. First, because God has 
promised it. Secondly, because he is able to perform it. 

Then said Prudence to the Boys, You must still hearken 
to your Mother, for she can learn you more. You must 
also dihgently give ear to what good talk you shall hear 
from others, for for your sakes do they speak good things. 
Observe also and that with carefulness, what the Heavens 
and the Earth do teach you; but especially be much in the 
meditation of that Book that 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 

Now by that these Pilgrims had been at this place a 
week, Mercy had a visitor that pretended some good will 
unto her, and his name was Mr Brisl{. A man of some 
breeding, and that pretended to Religion, but a man that 
stuck very close to the World. So he came once or twice 
or more to Mercy, and offered love unto her. Now 


Mercy was of fair countenance, and therefore the more 

Her mind also was, to be always busying of herself Mero's 
in doing, for when she had nothing to do for herself, ^'"'*'" 
she would be making of Hose and Garments for others, 
and would bestow them upon them that had need. And 
Mr Brisl{ not knowing where or how she disposed of 
what she made, seemed to be greatly taken for that he 
found her never idle. I will warrant her a good house- 
wife, quoth he to himself. 

Mercy then revealed the business to the Maidens that Mercy 
were of the house, and enquired of them concerning him, tiK. maids 
for they did know him better than she. So they told her concerning 
that he was a very busy young man, and one that pre- 
tended to Religion, but was as they feared, a stranger to 
the Power of that which was good. 

Nay then, said Mercy, I will look no more on him, for 
I purpose never to have a clog to my soul. 

Prudence then replied, That there needed no great mat- 
ter of discouragement to be given to him, her continuing 
so as she had began to do for the poor, would quickly cool 
his courage. 

So the next time he comes, he finds her at her old work, Tark 
a making of things for the poor. Then said he. What, Merc" and 
always at it ? Yes, said she, either for myself or for others. Mr Brisk 
And what canst thou earn a day? quoth he. I do these 
things, said she, that I may be rich in Good Worl{s, laying 
up in store a good Foundation against the time to come, 
that I may lay hold on Eternal Life. Why prithee what 
dost thou with them ? said he. Cloath the naked, said she. 
With that his countenance fell. So he forbore to come at He for- 
her again. And when he was asked the reason why, he ^a%,hy'* 
said that Mercy was a pretty lass, but troubled with ill 

When he had left her, Prudence said. Did I not tell 
thee, that Mr Bris\ would soon forsake thee.? yea, he will 
raise up an ill report of thee; for notwithstanding his 


in the 
of mercy 
Mercy in 
the name 
of mercy 
is lilced 



sister was 
by her 

falU sick 

Gripes of 


pretence to Religion, and his seeming love to Mercy, yet 
Mercy and he are of tempers so different, that I beheve 
they will never come together. 

Mercy. I might a had Husbands afore now, tho' I spake 
not of it to any; but they were such as did not like my 
Conditions, though never did any of them find fault with 
my Person. So they and I could not agree. 

Prud. Mercy in our days is little set by any further than 
as to its Name; the Practice, which is set forth by thy 
Conditions, there are but few that can abide. 

Mercy. Well, said Mercy, if nobody will have me, I 
will die a Maid, or my Conditions shall be to me as a 
Husband. For I cannot change my nature, and to have 
one that lies cross to me in this, that I purpose never to 
admit of as long as I live. I had a Sister named Bountiful, 
that was married to one of these churls; but he and she 
could never agree; but because my Sister was resolved to 
do as she had began, that is, to shew kindness to the poor, 
therefore her Husband first cried her down at the Cross,* 
and then turned her out of his doors. 

Prud. And yet he was a Professor, I warrant you. 

Mercy. Yes, such a one as he was, and of such as he 
the world is now full : but I am for none of them at all. 

Now Matthew the eldest Son of Christiana fell sick, 
and his sickness was sore upon him, for he was much 
pained in his Bowels, so that he was with it at times, 
pulled as 'twere both ends together. There dwelt also not 
far from thence, one Mr S/^ill, an antient and well-ap- 
proved Physician. So Christiana desired it, and they sent 
for him, and he came. When he was entred the room, and 
had a little observed the Boy, he concluded that he was 
sick of the Gripes. Then he said to his Mother, What 
diet has Matthew of late fed upon? Diet, said Chris- 
tiana, nothing but that which is wholesome. The Physi- 
cian answered. This Boy has been tampering with 

' Gave notice that he would not be responsible for debts contracted 
by his wife. 



something that lies in his maw undigested, and that will The 

not away without means. And I tell you he must be judgment' 

purged, or else he will die. 

Sam. Then said Samuel, Mother, Mother, what was Samuel 
that which my Brother did gather up and eat, so soon mothe'/in 
as we were cx)me from the Gate that is at the head of mind of the 
this way? You know that there was an Orchard on the brmher* 
left hand, on the other side of the wall, some of the did eat 
trees hung over the wall, and my Brother did plash and 
did eat. 

Chris. True my Child, said Christiana, he did take 
thereof and did eat, naughty Boy as he was. I did chide 
him, and yet he would eat thereof. 

5^/7/. I knew he had eaten something that was not 
wholesome food, and that food, to wit, that Fruit, is even 
the most hurtful of all. It is the Fruit of Beelzebub's 
Orchard. I do marvel that none did warn you of it; 
many have died thereof. 

Chris. Then Christiana began to cry, and she said, O 
naughty Boy, and O careless Mother, what shall I do for 
my Son? 

5^i7/. Come, do not be too much dejected; the Boy may 
do well again, but he must purge and vomit. 

Chris. Pray Sir, try the utmost of your skill with him 
whatever it costs. 

S^ill. Nay, I hope I shall be reasonable. So he made Potion 
him a Purge, but it was too weak. *Twas said it was made 
of the Blood of a Goat, the Ashes of a Heifer, and with 
some of the Juice of Hyssop, &c. When Mr S/^ill had 
seen that that Purge was too weak, he made him one to 
the purpose, 'twas made Ex Carne & Sanguine Christi. The Latin 
(You know Physicians give strange Medicines to their 
Patients.) And it was made up into Pills, with a Promise 
or two, and a proportionable quantity of Salt. Now he 
was to take them three at a time fasting, in half a quarter 
of a pint of the Tears of Repentance. When this Potion 
was prepared and brought to the Boy he was loth to take 


The boy 
loath to 
take the 

The mother 
tastes it, and 

A word of 
God in the 
hand of his 

This pill an 



In a glass 

of the 
tears of 


it, tho' torn with the Gripes as if he should be pulled in 
pieces. Come, come, said the Physician, you must take 
it. It goes against my stomach, said the Boy. I must have 
you take it, said his Mother. I shall vomit it up again, 
said the Boy. Pray Sir, said Christiana to Mr Sl^ill, how 
does it taste? It has no ill taste, said the Doctor, and with 
that she touched one of the Pills with the tip of her 
tongue. Oh Matthew, said she, this Potion is sweeter than 
Hony. If thou lovest thy Mother, if thou lovest thy 
Brothers, if thou lovest Mercy, if thou lovest thy Life, take 
it. So with much ado, after a short prayer for the blessing 
of God upon it, he took it, and it wrought kindly with 
him. It caused him to purge, it caused him to sleep and 
rest quiedy, it put him into a fine heat and breathing 
sweat, and did quite rid him of his Gripes. 

So in Utde time he got up and walked about with a 
staff, and would go from room to room, and talk with 
Prudence Piety and Charity of his Distemper, and how 
he was healed. 

So when the Boy was healed, Christiana asked Mr 
Sl{ill, saying Sir, what will content you for your pains and 
care to and of my Child ? And he said, You must pay the 
Master of the College of Physicians, according to rules 
made in that case and provided. 

Chris. But Sir, said she, what is this Pill good for 

Sl{ill. It is a universal Pill, it is good against all the 
diseases that Pilgrims are incident to, and when it is well 
prepared, it will keep good time out of mind. 

Chris. Pray Sir, make me up twelve boxes of them, 
for if I can get these, I will never take other Physick. 

5^///. These Pills are good to prevent diseases, as well 
as to cure when one is sick. Yea, I dare say it, and stand 
to it, that if a man will but use this Physick as he should, 
it will ma/^e him Hue for ever. But good Christiana, thou 
must give these Pills no other way but as I have pre- 
scribed, for if you do, they will do no good. So he gave 



Of the 
effects of 

Of Rre anil 
of the sun 

unto Christiana Physick for herself and her Boys and 
for Mercy, and bid Matthew take heed how he eat any 
more green Plums, and kissed them and went his way. 

It was told you before that Prudence bid the Boys, 
that if at any time they would, they should ask her some 
Questions that might be profitable, and she would say 
something to them. 

Matt. Then Matthew who had been sick, asked her, <^ physick 
Why for the most part Physicl^ should be hitter to our 

Prud. To shew how unwelcome the Word of God and 
the effects thereof are to a Carnal Heart. 

Matt. Why does Physick, if it does good, purge, and 
cause that we vomit? 

Prud. To shew that the Word, when it works effec- 
tually, cleanseth the Heart and Mind. For look, what the 
one doth to the Body the other doth to the Soul. 

Matt. What should we learn by seeing the Flame of 
our Fire go upwards? and by seeing the Beams and sweet 
Influences of the Sun strike downwards? 

Prud. By the going up of the Fire we are taught to 
ascend to Heaven by fervent and hot desires; and by the 
Sun his sending his Heat Beams and sweet Influences 
downwards, we are taught that the Saviour of the world, 
tho' high, reaches down with his Grace and Love to us 

Matt. Where have the Clouds their water ? 

Prud. Out of the Sea. 

Matt. What may we learn from that? 

Prud. That Ministers should fetch their Doctrine from 

Matt. Why do they empty themselves upon the Earth? 

Prud. To shew that Ministers should give out what 
they know of God to the World. 

Matt. Why is the Rainbow caused by the Sun? 

Prud. To shew that the covenant of God's Grace is 
confirmed to us in Christ. 

Of the 

Of the 


Of the 

Of the 

Of the 

Of the 

The weak 
may some- 
times call 
the strong 
to prayers 


Matt. Why do the Springs come from the Sea to us 
through the Earth? 

Prud. To shew that the Grace of God comes to us 
through the Body of Christ. 

Matt. Why do some of the Springs rise out of the tops 
of high Hills? 

Prud. To shew that the Spirit of Grace shall spring up 
in some that are Great and Mighty, as well as in many 
that are Poor and Low. 

Matt. Why doth the Fire fasten upon the Candlewick ? 

Prud. To shew that unless Grace doth kindle upon the 
Heart, there will be no true Light of Life in us. 

Matt. Why is the Wick and Tallow and all, spent to 
maintain the light of the Candle? 

Prud. To shew that Body and Soul and all, should be 
at the service of, and spend themselves to maintain in 
good condition, that Grace of God that is in us. 

Matt. Why doth the Pelican pierce her own Breast 
with her Bill? 

Prud. To nourish her young ones with her Blood, and 
thereby to shew that Christ the blessed so loved his young, 
his p)eople, as to save them from Death by his Blood. 

Matt. What may one learn by hearing the Cock to 
crow ? 

Prud. Learn to remember Peter's sin, and Pete/s re- 
pentance. The Cock's crowing shews also that Day is 
coming on; let then the crowing of the Cock put thee in 
mind of that last and terrible Day of Judgment. 

Now about this time their month was out, wherefore 
they signified to those of the house that 'twas convenient 
for them to up and be going. Then said Joseph to his 
Mother, It is convenient that you forget not to send to the 
house of Mr Interpreter, to pray him to grant that Mr 
Great-heart should be sent unto us, that he may be our 
Conductor the rest of our way. Good Boy, said she, I had 
almost forgot. So she drew up a Petition, and prayed Mr 
Watchful the Porter to send it by some fit man to her 

sin IS 


good Friend Mr Interpreter: who when it was come, and 
he had seen the contents of the Petition, said to the Mes- 
senger, Go tell them that 1 will send him. 

When the Family where Christiana was, saw that they They pro- 
had a purpose to go forward, they called the whole house gone on 
together, to give thanks to their King for sending of them '*>eir way 
such profitable Guests as these. Which done, they said to 
Christiana, And shall we not shew thee something, ac- 
cording as our custom is to do to Pilgrims, on which thou 
mayest meditate when thou art upon the way? So they 
took Christiana her Children and Mercy, into the closet, 
and shewed them one of the Apples that Eve did eat of, EWi apple 
and that she also did give to her Husband, and that for 
the eating of which they both were turned out of Paradise, 
and asked her what she thought that was? Then Chris- 
tiana said, 'Tis Food or Poison, I know not which. So 4_"?*" °^ 
they opened the matter to her, and she held up her hands 
and wondered. 

Then they had her to a place, and shewed her Jacob's f^'°'' * 
Ladder. Now at that time there were some Angels 
ascending up)on it. So Christiana looked and looked, to 
see the Angels go up, and so did the rest of the Company. 
Then they were going in to another place to shew them 
something else, but James said to his Mother, Pray bid A sight of 
them stay here a little longer, for this is a curious sight. ,aking 
So they turned again, and stood feeding their eyes with 
this so pleasant a prospect. After this they had them into 
a place where did hang up a Golden Anchor, so they bid Golden 
Christiana take it down. For, said they, you shall have 
it with you, for 'tis of absolute necessity that you should, 
that you may lay hold of that within the vail, and stand 
steadfast, in case you should meet with turbulent weather. 
So they were glad thereof. Then they took them, and 
had them to the Mount upon which Abraham our Father ^ Abra- 
had offered up Isaac his Son, and shewed them the Altar, jn^ up 
the Wood, the Fire, and the Knife, for they remain to be ■"»: 
seen to this very day. When they had seen it, they held 



Mr Great- 
heart come 

He brings 
a token 
from his 
with him 



up their hands and blest themselves, and said, Oh what a 
man for love to his Master, and for denial to himself was 
Abraham. After they had shewed them all these things, 
Prudence took them into the Dining-room, where stood 
a pair of excellent Virginals, so she played upon them, 
and turned what she had shewed them into this excellent 
song, saying. 

Eve's Apple we have shew'd you. 

Of that be you aware; 
You have seen Jacob's Ladder too. 

Upon which Angels are. 
An Anchor you received have, 

But let not these suffice. 
Until with Abr'am you have gave 

Your best a Sacrifice. 

Now about this time, one knocked at the door; so the 
Porter opened, and behold Mr Great-heart was there; but 
when he was come in, what joy was there? For it came 
now fresh again into their minds, how but a while ago 
he had slain old Grim Bloody-man the Giant, and de- 
livered them from the Lions. 

Then said Mr Great-heart to Christiana and to Mercy, 
My Lord has sent each of you a Bottle of Wine, and also 
some parched Corn, together with a couple of Pom- 
granates. He has also sent the Boys some Figs and Raisins 
to refresh you on your way. 

Then they addressed themselves to their Journey, and 
Prudence and Piety went along with them. When they 
came at the gate, Christiana asked the Porter if any of late 
went by.' He said, No, only one some time since, who 
also told me that of late there had been a great robbery 
committed on the King's Highway, as you go; but he 
saith the thieves are taken, 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 to go with us and to be our Conductor. 

Then said Christiana to the Porter, Sir, I am much 

pilgrim's PRCX3RESS 239 

obliged to you for all the kindnesses that you have shewed Christiana 
me since I came hither, and also for that you have been so \g^yg „( 
loving and kind to my Children. I know not how to '^c Porter 
gratify your kindness. Wherefore pray as a token of my 
respects to you, accept of this small mite. So she put a 
gold Angel in his hand, and he made her a low obeisance. The 
and said, Let thy Garments be always white, and let thy blessing 
Head want no Ointment. Let Mercy live and not die, 
and let not her works be few. And to the Boys he said, 
Do you fly youthful lusts, and follow after Godliness with 
them that are grave and wise, so shall you put gladness 
into your Mother's heart, and obtain praise of all that are 
sober-minded. So they thanked the Porter and departed. 
Now I saw in my Dream that they went forward until 
they were come to the brow of the Hill, where Piety 
bethinking herself, cried out, Alas! I have forgot what 
I intended to bestow upon Christiana and her Com- 
panions, I will go back and fetch it. So she ran and 
fetched it. While she was gone, Christiana thought she 
heard in a Grove a little way off on the right hand, a 
most curious, melodious note, with words much like 

Through all my Life thy Favour is 
So frankly shew'd to me, 

That in thy House for evermore 
My dwelling-place shall be. 

And Ustening still she thought she heard another an- 
swer it, saying, 

For 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 'twas that made 
those curious notes? They are, said she, our Country 
Birds; they sing these notes but seldom, except it be at 
the Spring, when the Flowers appear, and the Sun shines 
warm, and then you may hear them all day long. I often. 


on them 
at parting 

First Part, 
p. 60 

Mr Great- 
heart at 
the Valley 
of Hu- 

First Part, 
p. 60 


said she, go out to hear them, we also oft-times keep them 
tame in our house. They are very fine company for us 
when we are melancholy, also they make the Woods and 
Groves and Solitary places, places desirous to be in. 

By this time Piety was come again; so she said to 
Christiana, Look here, I have brought thee a scheme of all 
those things that thou hast seen at our house, uf)on which 
thou mayest look when thou findest thyself forgetful, 
and call those things again to remembrance for thy edifi- 
cation and comfort. 

Now they began to go down the Hill into the Valley of 
Humiliation. It was a steep Hill, and the way was slip- 
pery; but they were very careful, so they got down pretty 
well. When they were down in the Valley, Piety said to 
Christiana, This is the place where Christian your Hus- 
band met with that foul Fiend Apollyon, and where they 
had that Fight that they had; I know you cannot but have 
heard thereof. But be of good courage; as long you have 
here Mr Great-heart to be your Guide and Conductor, we 
hope you will fare the better. So when these two had 
committed the Pilgrims unto the conduct of their Guide, 
he went forward and they went after. 

Great-heart. Then said Mr Great-heart, we need not 
to be so afraid of this Valley, for here is nothing to hurt us 
unless we procure it to ourselves. 'Tis true. Christian did 
here meet with Apollyon, with whom he also had a sore 
Combat; but that jray was the fruit of those slips that he 
got in his going down the Hill; for they that get slips 
there, must look for combats here. And hence it is that 
this Valley has got so hard a name; for the common 
people when they hear that some frightful thing has 
befallen such a one in such a place, are of an opinion 
that that place is haunted with some foul Fiend or evil 
Spirit; when alas it is for the fruit of their doing, that 
such things do befall them there. 

This Valley of Humiliation is of itself as fruitful a 
place as any the Crow flies over; and I am persuaded if 


we could hit upon it, we might find somewhere here- The ■■"- 
abouts, something that might give us an account why christian 
Christian was so hardly beset in this place. "" ^ 

Then James said to his Mother, Lo, yonder stands a 
Pillar, and it looks as if something was written thereon, A pillar 
let us go and see what it is. So they went, and found inscription 
there written. Let Christian's slips before he came hither. °" " 
and the Battles that he met with in this place, be a warn- 
ing to those that come after. Lo, said their Guide, did not 
I tell you that there was something hereabouts that would 
give intimation of the reason why Christian was so hard 
beset in this place? Then turning himself to Christiana, 
he said. No disparagement to Christian more than to 
many others whose hap and lot his was; for 'tis easier 
going up than down this Hill, and that can be said but 
of few Hills in all these parts of the world. But we will 
leave the good man, he is at rest, he also had a brave 
Victory over his Enemy, let him grant that dwelleth 
above, that we fare no worse when we come to be tried 
than he. 

But we will come again to this Valley of Humiliation. This valley 
It is the best and most fruitful piece of ground in all pij"' 
those parts. It is fat ground, and as you see, consisteth 
much in meadows; and if a man was to come here in the 
Summer-time, as we do now, if he knew not anything 
before thereof, and if he also delighted himself in the 
sight of his eyes, he might see that that would be delight- 
ful to him. Behold how green this Valley is, also how 
beautified with Lillies. I have also known many labour- 
ing men that have got good estates in this Valley of Men thrive 
Humiliation (for God resisteth the Proud, but gives more \^y „£ hu- 
Grace to the Humble) for indeed it is a very fruitful soil, miliation 
and doth bring forth by handfuls. Some also have wished 
that the next way to their Father's house were here, that 
they might be troubled no more with either Hills or 
Mountains, to go over; but the way is the way, and there's 
an end. 


Phil. iv. 
12, 13 

Heb. xiii. 5 

when in 
the flesh, 
had his 
in the Val- 
ley of Hu- 


Now as they were going along and talking, they espied 
a Boy feeding his Father's Sheep. The Boy was in very 
mean cloaths, but of a very fresh and well-favoured coun- 
tenance, and as he sate by himself, he sung. Hark, said 
Mr Great-heart, to what the Shepherd's Boy saith. So 
they hearkened, 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 thou savest such. 
Fulness to such a burden is 

That go on Pilgrimage; 
Here litde, and hereafter Bliss, 

Is best from age to age. 

Then said their Guide, Do you hear him.' I will dare 
to say, that this Boy lives a merrier life, and wears more 
of that Herb called Heart's-ease in his bosom, than he 
that is clad in Silk and Velvet; but we will proceed in 
our discourse. 

In this Valley our Lord formerly had his Country- 
house; he loved much to be here; he loved also to walk 
these Meadows, for he found the air was pleasant. Be- 
sides here a man shall be free from the noise, and from 
the hurryings of this life. All states are full of Noise 
and Confusion, only the Valley of Humiliation is that 
empty and solitary place. Here a man shall not be so let 
and hindred in his Contemplation, as in other places he is 
apt to be. This is a Valley that nobody walks in, but 
those that love a Pilgrim's life. And tho' Christian had 
the hard hap to meet here with Apollyon, and to enter 
with him a brisk encounter, yet I must tell you, that in 
former times men have met with Angels here, have 
found Pearls here, and have in this place found the words 
of Life. 


Did I say our Lord had here in former days his Coun- 
try-house, and that he loved here to walk? I will add, 
in this place, and to the people that live and trace these 
Grounds, he has left a yearly revenue to be faithfully 
payed them at certain seasons, for their maintenance by 
the way, and for their further encouragement to go on in 
their Pilgrimage. 

Samuel. Now as they went on, Samuel said to Mr 
Great-heart, Sir, I perceive that in this Valley my Father 
and Apollyon had their Battle, but whereabout was the 
Fight, for I perceive this Valley is large? 

Great-heart. Your Father had that Battle with Apol- Forgetful 
lyon at a place yonder before us, in a narrow passage just 
beyond Forgetful Green. And indeed that place is the 
most dangerous place in all these parts. For if at any 
time the Pilgrims meet with any brunt, it is when they 
forget what favours they have received, and how un- 
worthy they are of them. This is the place also where 
others have been hard put to it; but more of the place 
when we are come to it; for I persuade myself that to this 
day there remains either some sign of the Battle, or some 
Monument to testify that such a Battle there was fought. 

Mercy. Then said Mercy, I think I am as well in this Humility 
Valley as I have been anywhere else in all our Journey, grace 
the place methinks suits with my spirit. I love to be in 
such places where there is no rattling with Coaches, nor 
rumbling with Wheels. Methinks here one may without 
much molestation, be thinking what he is, whence he 
came, what he has done, and to what the King has called 
him. Here one may think, and break at heart, and melt 
in one's spirit, until one's eyes become like the Fishpools 
of Heshbon. They that go rightly through this Valley 
of Baca make it a Well, the Rain that God sends down 
from Heaven upon them that are here also filleth the 
Pools. This Valley is that from whence also the King 
will give to their vineyards, and they that go through 
it shall sing, as Christian did for all he met with Apollyon. 


An experi- 
ment of it 

The place 
and the 
fiend did 

Some signs 
of the 

A monu- 
ment of 
the battle 

A monu- 
ment of 


Great-heart. 'Tis true, said their Guide, I have gone 
through this Valley many a time, and never was better 
than when here. 

I have also been a Conduct to several Pilgrims, and they 
have confessed the same. To this man will I lool{, saith 
the King, even to him that is Poor, and of a Contrite 
Spirit, and that trembles at my Word. 

Now they were come to the place where the afore 
mentioned Battle was fought. Then said the Guide to 
Christiana her Children and Mercy, This is the place, 
on this ground Christian stood, and up there came Apol- 
lyon against him. And look, did not I tell you? Here is 
some of your Husband's Blood upon these stones to this 
day; behold also how here and there are yet to be seen 
upon the place some of the shivers of Apollyon's broken 
Darts. See also how they did beat the ground with their 
feet as they fought, to make good their places against 
each other, how also with their by-blows they did split 
the very stones in pieces. Verily Christian did here play 
the man, and shewed himself as stout, as could, had he 
been there, even Hercules himself. When Apollyon was 
beat, he made his retreat to the next Valley, that is called 
the Valley of the Shadow of Death, unto which we shall 
come anon. 

Lo yonder also stands a Monument, on which is en- 
graven this Battle, and Christian's Victory, to his fame 
throughout all ages. So because it stood just on the way- 
side before them, they stept to it and read the writing, 
which word for word was this. 

Hard by here was a Battle fought. 

Most strange, and yet most true; 
Christian and Apollyon sought 

Each other to subdue. 
The Man so bravely play'd the Man, 

He made the Fiend to fly; 
Of which a Monument I stand, 

The same to testify. 


p. 65 


When they had passed by this place, they came upon First Pan, 
the borders of the Shadow of Death; and this Valley was 
longer than the other; a place also most strangely haunted 
with evil things, as many are able to testify. But these 
Women and Children went the better through it because 
they had day-light, and because Mr Great-heart was their 

When they were entred upon this Valley, they thought Groaningi 
that they heard a groaning as of dead men, a very great 
groaning. They thought also they did hear words of 
Lamentation spoken, as of some in extreme Torment. 
These things made the Boys to quake, the Women also 
looked pale and wan; but their Guide bid them be of 
good comfort. 

So they went on a little further, and they thought that TJ" ground 
they felt the ground begin to shake under them, as if 
some hollow place was there; they heard also a kind of 
hissing as of Serpents, but nothing as yet appeared. Then 
said the Boys, Are we not yet at the end of this doleful 
place? But the Guide also bid them be of good courage, 
and look well to their feet, lest haply, said he, you be 
taken in some Snare. 

Now James began to be sick, but I think the cause !»>"« »^^ 
thereof was fear; so his Mother gave him some of that 
glass of Spirits that she had given her at the Interpreter's 
house, and three of the Pills that Mr 5^/7/ had prepared, 
and the Boy began to revive. Thus they went on till they 
came to about the middle of the Valley, and then Chris- 
tiana said, Methinks I see something yonder upon the Th* fi*™* 
road before us, a thing of such a shape such as I have 
not seen. Then said Joseph, Mother, what is it ? An ugly 
thing, Child, an ugly thing, said she. But Mother, what 
is it like? said he. 'Tis like I cannot tell what, said she. J."?* . 
And now it was but a little way off. Then said she, It are afraid 
is nigh. 

Well, well, said Mr Great-heart, Let them that are most 




A lion 

A pit and 

now knows 
what her 


afraid keep close to me. So the Fiend came on, and the 
Conductor met it; but when it was just come to him, it 
vanished to all their sights. Then remembred they what 
had been said some time ago, Resist the Devil, and he 
will fly from you. 

They went therefore on, as being a little refreshed; but 
they had not gone far, before Mercy looking behind her, 
saw, as she thought, something most like a Lion, and it 
came a great padding pace after; and it had a hollow 
Voice of Roaring, and at every Roar that it gave it made 
all the Valley echo, and their hearts to ake, save the heart 
of him that was their Guide. So it came up, and Mr 
Great-heart went behind, and put the Pilgrims all before 
him. The Lion also came on apace, and Mr Great-heart 
addressed himself to give him Battle. But when he saw 
that it was determined that resistance should be made, 
he also drew back and came no further. 

Then they went on again, and their Conductor did go 
before them, till they came at a place where was cast up a 
Pit the whole breadth of the way, and before they could 
be prepared to go over that, a great Mist and a Darkness 
fell upon them, so that they could not see. Then said the 
Pilgrims, Alas! now what shall we do? But their Guide 
made answer, Fear not, stand still and see what an end 
will be put to this also. So they stayed there because 
their path was marr'd. They then also thought that 
they did hear more apparently the noise and rushing of 
the Enemies, the fire also and the smoke of the Pit was 
much easier to be discerned. Then said Christiana to 
Mercy, Now I see what my poor Husband went through, 
I have heard much of this place, but I never was here 
afore now. Poor man, he went here all alone in the night; 
he had night almost quite through the way; also these 
Fiends were busy about him as if they would have torn 
him in pieces. Many have spoke of it, but none can tell 
what the Valley of the Shadow of Death should mean, 
until they come in it themselves. The heart \nows its 


own Bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with its 
Joy. To be here is a fearful thing. 

Great-heart. This is like doing business in great Great-heart'* 
Waters, or like going down into the deep; this is like ^^ 
being in the heart of the Sea, and like going down to the 
bottoms of the Mountains; now it seems as if the Earth 
with its bars were about us for ever. But let them that 
wall{ in Darkness and have no Light, trust in the name of 
the Lord, and stay upon their God. For my part, as I 
have told you already, I have gone often through this 
Valley, and have been much harder put to it than now I 
am, and yet you see I am alive. I would not boast, for 
that I am not mine own saviour, but I trust we shall have 
a good Deliverance. Come let us pray for Light to him 
that can lighten our Darkness, and that can rebuke not 
only these, but all the Satans in Hell. 

So they cried and prayed, and God sent Light and '^'V P"y 
Deliverance, for there was now no let in their way, no not 
there where but now they were stopt with a Pit. Yet they 
were not got through the Valley; so they went on still, 
and behold great stinks and loathsome smells, to the 
great annoyance of them. Then said Mercy to Christiana, 
There is not such pleasant being here as at the Gate, or at 
the Interpreter's, or at the house where we lay last. 

Oh but, said one of the Boys, it is not so bad to go One of the 
through here as it is to abide here always, and for ought *' "'^ ^ 
I know, one reason why we must go this way to the 
house prepared for us, is, that our home might be made 
the sweeter to us. 

Well said Samuel, quoth the Guide, thou hast now 
spoke like a man. Why, if ever I get out here again, said 
the Boy, I think I shall prize light and good way better 
than ever I did in all my life. Then said the Guide, We 
shall be out by and by. 

So on they went, and Joseph said. Cannot we see to the Heedless is 
end of this Valley as yet? Then said the Guide, Look Take-heed 
to your feet, for you shall presently be among the Snares, preserved 



So they looked to their feet and went on, but they were 
troubled much with the Snares. Now when they were 
come among the Snares, they espied a man cast into the 
Ditch on the left hand, with his flesh all rent and torn. 
Then said the Guide, That is one Heedless, that was a 
going this way, he has lain there a great while. There 
was one Taf^e-heed with him when he was taken and 
slain, but he escaped their hands. You cannot imagine 
how many are killed hereabouts, and yet men are so 
foolishly venturous, as to set out lightly on Pilgrimage, 
Pint Part, and to come without a Guide. Poor Christian, it was 
**■ ^ a wonder that he here escaped; but he was beloved of his 

God, also he had a good heart of his own, or else he could 
never a done it. Now they drew towards the end of the 
way, and just there where Christian had seen the Cave 
Maul, a when he went by, out thence came forth Maul a Giant. 
*""' This A/a«/ did use to spoil young Pilgrims with Sophis- 

try; and he called Great-heart by his name, and said unto 
him, How many times have you been forbidden to do 
these things? Then said Mr Great-heart, What things? 
What things? quoth the Giant, you know what things, 
but I will put an end to your trade. But pray, said Mr 
Great-heart, before we fall to it, let us understand where- 
He quarrels fore we must fight. Now the Women and Children stood 
J^ ' trembling, and knew not what to do. Quoth the Giant, 
You rob the Country, and rob it with the worst of thefts. 
These are but generals, said Mr Great-heart, come to 
particulars, man. 
God's Then said the Giant, Thou practisest the craft of a 

roumed as Kidnapper, thou gatherest up Women and Children, 
kidnappers and carriest them into a strange Country, to the weaken- 
ing of my master's Kingdom. But now Great-heart 
replied, I am a servant of the God of Heaven, my busi- 
ness is to persuade sinners to repentance, I am com- 
manded to do my endeavour to turn Men Women and 
Children, from darkness to light, and from the power of 


Satan to God; and if this be indeed the ground of thy 
quarrel, let us fall to it as soon as thou wilt. 

Then the Giant came up, and Mr Great-heart went to 1T>e giant 
meet him; and as he went he drew his Sword, but the Mr. Great- 
Giant had a Club. So without more ado they fell to it, heart must 
and at the first blow the Giant stroke Mr Great-heart 
down upon one of his knees; with that the Women and 
Children cried out ; so Mr Great-heart recovering him- Weak folks' 
self, laid about him in full lusty manner, and gave the son^etimes 
Giant a wound in his arm; thus he fought for the space help strong 
of an hour to that height of heat, that the breath came 
out of the Giant's nostrils, as the heat doth out of a boil- 
ing Caldron. 

Then they sat down to rest them, but Mr Great-heart 
betook him to prayer; also the Women and Children did 
nothing but sigh and cry all the time that the Battle did 

When they had rested them, and taken breath, they The giant 
both fell to it again, and Mr Great-heart with a full blow 
fetched the Giant down to the ground. Nay hold and 
let me recover, quoth he. So Mr Great-heart fairly let 
him get up. So to it they went again, and the Giant 
missed but little of all to breaking Mr Great-heart's skull 
with his Club. 

Mr Great-heart seeing that, runs to him in the full heat 
of his spirit, and pierceth him under the fifth rib; with 
that the Giant began to faint, and could hold up his 
Club no longer. Then Mr Great-heart seconded his blow, 
and smit the head of the Giant from his shoulders. Then 
the Women and Children rejoiced, and Mr Great-heart 
also praised God for the deliverance he had wrought. 

When this was done, they among them erected a Pil- He is slain, 
lar, and fastned the Giant's head thereon, and wrote disposed of 
underneath in letters that Passengers might read. 

He that did wear this head, was one 
That Pilgrims did misuse; 



He stopt their way, he sfiared none, 
But did them all abuse; 

Until that I Great-heart arose. 
The Pilgrim's Guide to be; 

Until that I did him oppose 
That was their Enemy. 

Fint Part, 
p. 70 

of the fight 


Now I saw that they went to the Ascent that was a 
little way off cast up to be a Prospect for Pilgrims, (that 
was the place from whence Christian had the first sight 
of Faithful his Brother) wherefore here they sat down 
and rested, they also here did eat and drink and make 
merry, for that they had gotten deliverance from this so 
dangerous an Enemy. As they sat thus and did eat, 
Christiana asked the Guide if he had caught no hurt in 
the Battle. Then said Mr Great-heart, No, save a little 
on my flesh; yet that also shall be so far from being to 
my determent, that it is at present a proof of my love to 
my Master and you, and shall be a means by Grace to 
increase my reward at last. 

Chris. But was you not afraid, good Sir, when you see 
him come out with his club? 

Great-heart. It is my duty, said he, to distrust mine 
own ability, that I may have reliance on him that is 
stronger than all. 

Chris. But what did you think when he fetched you 
down to the ground at the first blow? 

Great-heart. Why I thought, quoth he, that so my Mas- 
ter himself was served, and yet he it was that conquered 
at the last. 

Matt. When you all have thought what you please, I 
think God has been wonderful good unto us, both in 
bringing us out of this Valley, and in delivering us out 
of the hand of this Enemy; 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 testimony 
of his love as this. 

Then they got up and went forward. Now a little 

pilgrim's progress 251 

before them stood an Oak, and under it when they came O'd Honest 
to it, they found an old Pilgrim fast asleep; they knew j^ ^^ 
that he was a Pilgrim by his Cloaths and his Staff and 
his Girdle. 

So the Guide Mr Great-heart awaked him, and the old 
Gentleman as he lift up his eyes, cried out. What's the 
matter ? who are you ? and what is your business here ? 

Great-heart. Come man be not so hot, here is none 
but Friends: yet the old man gets up and stands upon 
his guard, and will know of them what they were. Then 
said the Guide, My name is Great-heart, I am the Guide 
of these Pilgrims which are going to the Ccelestial 

Honest. Then said Mr Honest, I cry you mercy, I O"*^ s?'"' 
fear'd that you had been of the company of those that takes 
some time ago did rob Little-faith of his money; but now another 
I look better about me, I perceive you are honester people, enemy 

Great-heart. Why what would or could you a done Talk 
to a helped yourself, if we indeed had been of that com- GrJa"" 
pany ? heart 

Hon. Done! why I would a fought as long as breath 
had been in me; and had I so done, I am sure you could 
never have given me the worst on't; for a Christian can 
never be overcome, unless he shall yield of himself. 

Great-heart. Well said. Father Honest, quoth the 
Guide, for by this I know thou art a cock of the right 
kind, for thou hast said the truth. 

Hon. And by this also I know that thou knowest what 

true Pilgrimage is, for all others do think that we are 

the soonest overcome of any. 

Great-heart. Well now we are so happily met, pray let Whence 

J , r u I Mr Honest 

me crave your name, and the name of the place you came (.a^e 


Hon. My name I cannot, but I came from the Town 
of Stupidity, it lieth about four degrees beyond the City 
of Destruction. 

Great-heart. Oh! are you that Countryman then.'' I 


ones are 
worse than 

Old Honest 


He also 
talks with 
the boys 

Old Mr 

on them 


deem I have half a guess of you, your name is Old Hori' 
esty, is it not ? So the old Gentleman blushed, and said, 
Not Honesty in the abstract, but Honest is my name, and 
I wish that my nature shall agree to what I am called. 

Hon. But Sir, said the old Gentleman, how could you 
guess that I am such a man, since I came from such a 
place ? 

Great-heart. I had heard of you before, by my Master, 
for he knows all things that are done on the Earth; but 
I have often wondered that any should come from your 
place, for your Town is worse than is the City of Destruc- 
tion itself. 

Hon. Yes, we lie more off from the Sun, and so are 
more cold and senseless; but was a man in a Mountain 
of Ice, yet if the Sun of Righteousness will arise uf)on 
him, his frozen heart shall feel a thaw; and thus it hath 
been with me. 

Great-heart. I believe it. Father Honest, I believe it, for 
I know the thing is true. 

Then the old Gentleman saluted all the Pilgrims with 
a holy kiss of charity, and asked them of their names, 
and how they had fared since they set out on their 

Chris. Then said Christiana, My name I suppose you 
have heard of, good Christian was my Husband.and these 
four were his Children. But can you think how the old 
Gentleman was taken, when she told them who she was! 
He skipped, he smiled, and blessed them with a thousand 
good wishes, saying, 

Hon. I have heard much of your Husband, and of his 
travels and Wars which he underwent in his days. Be 
it spoken to your comfort, the name of your Husband 
rings over all these parts of the world: his Faith, his 
Courage, his Enduring, and his Sincerity under all, has 
made his name famous. Then he turned him to the Boys, 
and asked them of their names, which they told him. 
And then said he unto them, Matthew, be thou like 



Matthew the Publican, not in vice but in vertue. Samuel, 
said he, be thou hke Samuel the Prophet, a man of jaith 
and prayer. Joseph, said he, be thou Hke Joseph in Poti- 
phar's house, chaste, and one that flies from temptation. 
And James be thou hke James the Just and Hke James 
the Brother of our Lord. 

Then they told him of Mercy, and how she had left her JJ« blesseth 
Town and her Kindred to come along with Christiana 
and with her Sons. At that the old honest man said, 
Mercy is thy name? by Mercy shall thou be sustained, 
and carried through all those difficulties that shall assault 
thee in thy way, till thou shalt come thither where thou 
shah look the Fountain of Mercy in the face with comfort. 

All this while the Guide Mr Great-heart was very much 
pleased, and smiled upon his Companion. 

Now as they walked along together, the Guide asked ^""'J'^ 
the old Gentleman if he did not know one Mr Fearing, Fearing 
that came on Pilgrimage out of his parts? 

Hon. Yes, very well, said he. He was a man that had 
the root of the matter in him, but he was one of the most 
troublesome Pilgrims that ever I met with in all my days. 

Great-heart. I perceive you knew him, for you have 
given a very right character of him. 

Hon. Knew him! I was a great Companion of his; 
I was with him most an end; when he first began to 
think of what would come upon us hereafter, I was with 

Great-heart. I was his Guide from my Master's house 
to the gates of the Ccelestial City. 

Hon. Then you knew him to be a troublesome one. 

Great-heart. I did so, but I could very well bear it, for 
men of my calling are oftentimes intrusted with the 
conduct of such as he was. 

Hon. Well then, pray let us hear a little of him, and 
he managed himself under your conduct. 

Great-heart. Why, he was always afraid that he should 
come short of whither he had a desire to go. Everything 


Mr Fear- 
ing's trou- 

His be- 
haviour at 
the Slough 
of Dispond 

Hb be- 
haviour at 
the gate 


frightned him that he heard anybody speak of, that had 
but the least appearance of opp)osition in it. I hear that 
he lay roaring at the Slough of Dispond for above a 
month together, nor durst he, for all he saw several go 
over before him, venture, tho' they, many of them, offered 
to lend him their hand. He would not go back again 
neither. The Coelestial City, he said, he should die if he 
came not to it, and yet was dejected at every difficulty, 
and stumbled at every Straw that anybody cast in his 
way. Well, after he had lain at the Slough of Dispond a 
great while, as I have told you; one Sun-shine morning, 
I do not know how, he ventured, and so got over. But 
when he was over, he would scarce believe it. He had, I 
think, a Slough of Dispond in his mind, a Slough that 
he carried everywhere with him, or else he could never 
have been as he was. So he came up to the Gate, you 
know what I mean, that stands at the head of this way, 
and there also he stood a good while before he would 
adventure to knock. When the Gate was opened he 
would give back, and give place to others, and say that 
he was not worthy; for for all he gat before some to the 
Gate, yet many of them went in before him. There the 
poor man would stand shaking and shrinking; I dare 
say it would have pitied one's heart to have seen him, 
nor would he go back again. At last he took the Ham- 
mer that hanged on the Gate in his hand, and gave a 
small Rap or two; then one opened to him, but he shrank 
back as before. He that opened stept out after him, and 
said, Thou trembling one, what wantest thou? With that 
he fell down to the ground. He that spoke to him won- 
dered to see him so faint. So he said to him. Peace be to 
thee, up, for I have set ojjen the door to thee, come in, 
for thou art blest. With that he gat up, and went in 
trembling, and when he was in, he was ashamed to shew 
his face. Well, after he had been entertained there a 
while, as you know how the manner is, he was bid go on 
his way, and also told the way he should take. So he 

pilgrim's progress 255 

came till he came to our house. But as he behaved him- ||'".'*' 
self at the Gate, so he did at my Master the Interpreter's ,hc inter- 
door. He lay thereabout in the cold a good while, before preter's 
he would adventure to call, yet he would not go back, and 
the nights were long and cold then. Nay he had a Note 
of Necessity in his bosom to my Master, to receive him 
and grant him the comfort of his house, and also to allow 
him a stout and valiant Conduct because he was himself 
so chicf^in-hearted a man; and yet for all that he was 
afraid to call at the door. So he lay up and down there- 
abouts till, poor man, he was almost starved. Yea so 
great was his Dejection, that tho' he saw several others 
for knocking got in, yet he was afraid to venture. At last, 
I think I looked out of the window, and perceiving a 
man to be up and down about the door, I went out to 
him, and asked what he was; but, poor man, the water 
stood in his eyes; so I perceived what he wanted. I went 
therefore in and told it in the house, and we shewed the 
thing to our Lord. So he sent me out again, to entreat How he 
him to come in ; but I dare say I had hard work to do it. ^^° jJe„ 
At last he came in, and I will say that for my Lord, he 
carried it wonderful lovingly to him. There were but few 
good bits at the Table but some of it was laid upon his 
trencher. Then he presented the Note, and my Lord 
looked thereon, and said his desire should be granted. 
So when he had been there a good while, he seemed to He is a 
get some heart, and to be a little more comfortable; for c'ouraired 
my Master, you must know, is one of very tender bowels, at the In- 
specially to them that are afraid; wherefore he carried it ^^la^x "' 
so towards him as might tend most to his encouragement. 
Well, when he had had a sight of the things of the place, 
and was ready to take his Journey to go to the City, my 
Lord, as he did to Christian before, gave him a Bottle of 
Spirits, and some comfortable things to eat. Thus we 
set forward, and I went before him; but the man was 
but of few words, only he would sigh aloud. 
When we were come to where the three fellows were 


He was 

when he 
saw the 
when he 
saw (he 

at the 

He went 
down into, 
and was 
very pleas- 
ant in the 
of Hu- 

Much per- 
plexed in 
the Valley of 
the Shadow 
of Death 


hanged, he said that he doubted that that would be his 
end also. Only he seemed glad when he saw the Cross 
and the Sepulchre. There I confess he desired to stay a 
little to look, and he seemed for a while after to be a little 
cheery. When we came to the Hill Difficulty, he made 
no stick at that, nor did he much fear the Lions; for you 
must know that his trouble was not about such things 
as those, his fear was about his acceptance at last. 

I got him in at the House Beautiful, I think, before 
he was willing. Also when he was in, I brought him 
acquainted with the Damsels that were of the place, but 
he was ashamed to make himself much for company. 
He desired much to be alone, yet he always loved good 
talk, and often would get behind the Screen to hear it. 
He also loved much to see antient things, and to be 
pondering them in his mind. He told me afterwards that 
he loved to be in those two houses from which he came 
last, to wit, at the Gate, and that of the Interpreters, but 
that he durst not be so bold to ask. 

When we went also from the House Beautiful, down 
the Hill into the Valley of Humiliation, he went down 
as well as ever I saw man in my life; for he cared not how 
mean he was, so he might be happy at last. Yea, I think 
there was a kind of sympathy betwixt that Valley and 
him, for I never saw him better in all his Pilgrimage than 
when he was in that Valley. 

Here he would lie down, embrace the ground and kiss 
the very Flowers that grew in this Valley. He would now 
be up every morning by break of day, tracing and walk- 
ing to and fro in this Valley. 

But when he was come to the entrance of the Valley of 
the Shadow of Death, I thought I should have lost my 
man; not for that he had any inclination to go back, that 
he always abhorred, but he was ready to die for fear. O, 
the Hobgoblins will have me, the Hobgoblins will have 
me, cried he, and I could not beat him out on't. He made 
such a noise and such an outcry here, that, had they but 


heard him, 'twas enough to encourage them to come and 
fall upon us. 

But this I took very great notice of, that this Valley 
was as quiet while he went through it, as ever I knew 
it before or since. I suppose these Enemies here had now 
a special check from our Lord, and a command not to 
meddle until Mr Fearing was past over it. 

It would be too tedious to tell you of all. We will there- 
fore only mention a passage or two more. When he was 
come at Vanity Fair, I thought he would have fought 
with all the men in the Fair. I feared there we should 
both have been knock'd o' the head, so hot was he against 
their fooleries. Upon the Inchanted Ground he was also 
very wakeful. But when he was come at the River where 
was no Bridge, there again he was in a heavy case. Now, 
now, he said, he should be drowned for ever, and so never 
see that face with comfort that he had come so many 
miles to behold. 

And here also I took notice of what was very remark- 
able, the Water of that River was lower at this time than 
ever I saw it in all my life. So he went over at last, not 
much above wet-shod. When he was going up to the 
Gate, Mr Great-heart began to take his leave of him, and 
to wish him a good reception above. So he said, / shall, 
I shall. Then parted we asunder, and I saw him no more. 

Hon. Then it seems he was well at last. 

Great-heart. Yes, yes; I never had doubt about him; 
he was a man of a choice spirit, only he was always kept 
very low, and that made his life so burdensome to him- 
self, and so troublesome to others. He was above many 
tender of sin. He was so afraid of doing injuries to 
others, that he often would deny himself of that which 
was lawful, because he would not offend. 

Hon. But what should be the reason that such a good 
man should be all his days so much in the dark."* 

Great-heart. There are two sorts of reasons for it. One 
is, the wise God will have it so, some must pipe and some 


His be- 
haviour at 
Vanity Fair 


at last 


why good 
men are so 
in the dark 

A close 
about him 



must weep. Now Mr Fearing was one that played upon 
this Base; he and his fellows sound the sacl{but, whose 
notes are more doleful than the notes of other Musick 
are; though indeed some say the Base is the Ground of 
Musick. And for my part I care not at all for that pro- 
fession that begins not in heaviness of mind. The first 
string that the Musician usually touches is the Base, 
when he intends to put all in tune. God also plays upon 
this string first, when he sets the soul in tune for himself. 
Only here was the imperfection of Mr Fearing, he could 
play upon no other Musick but this, till towards his 
latter end. 

I make bold to talk thus metaphorically, for the ripen- 
ing of the Wits of young Readers; and because in the 
Book of the Revelations, the saved are compared to a 
company of Musicians that play upon their Trumpets 
and Harps, and sing their Songs before the Throne. 

Hon. He was a very zealous man, as one may see by 
what relation you have given of him. Difficulties, Lions 
or Vanity Fair, he feared not at all. 'Twas only Sin Death 
and Hell that was to him a terror, because he had some 
doubts about his interest in that Coelestial Country. 

Great-heart. You say right. Those were the things that 
were his troublers, and they, as you have well observed, 
arose from the weakness of his mind there-about, not 
from weakness of spirit as to the practical part of a Pil- 
grim's life. I dare believe that, as the Proverb is, he could 
have bit a Fire-brand, had it stood in his way; but the 
things with which he was oppressed, no man ever yet 
could shake off with ease. 

Chris. Then said Christiana, This relation of Mr Fear- 
ing has done me good. I thought nobody had been like 
me, but I see there was some semblance 'twixt this good 
man and I, only we differed in two things. His troubles 
were so great, they brake out, but mine I kept within. 
His also lay so hard upon him, they made him that he 
could not knock at the houses provided for Entertain- 


ment, but my trouble was always such as made me knock 
the louder. 

Mercy. If I might also speak my heart, I must say 
that something of him has also dwelt in me; for I have 
ever been more afraid of the Lake and the loss of a place 
in Paradise, than I have been of the loss of other things. 
Oh, thought I, may I have the happiness to have a habi- 
tation there, 'tis enough, though I part with all the world 
to win it. 

Matt. Then said Matthew, Fear was one thing that 
made me think that I was far from having that within 
me that accompanies Salvation, but if it was so with such 
a good man as he, why may it not also go well with me? 

James. No fears, no Grace, said James. Tho' there 
is not always Grace where there is the fear of Hell, yet 
to be sure there is no Grace where there is no fear of God. 

Great-heart. Well said, James, thou hast hit the mark, 
for the fear of God is the beginning of Wisdom, and to 
be sure they that want the beginning have neither middle 
nor end. But we will here conclude our discourse of Mr 
Fearing, after we have sent after him this farewell. 

Well, Master Fearing, thou didst fear 
Thy God, and wast afraid 
Of doing anything while here 
That would have thee betray 'd. 

And didst thou fear the Lake and Pit? 
Would others do so too. 
For as for them that want thy wit, 
They do themselves undo. 

Now I saw that they still went on in their talk; for 
after Mr Great-heart had made an end with Mr Fearing, 
Mr Honest began to tell them of another, but his name 
was Mr Self-u/ill. He pretended himself to be a Pilgrim, 
said Mr Honest, but I persuade myself he never came in 
at the Gate that stands at the head of the way. 

Great-heart. Had you ever any talk with him about it? 

Hon. Yes, more than once or twice, but he would al- 





about him 

Of Mr 



260 pilgrim's progress 

Old Honest ways be like himself, self-willed. He neither cared for 
bad ulked 1 l l- • j 

with him nian, nor argument, nor yet example; what his mmd 

prompted him to do, that he would do, and nothing else 

could he be got to. 

Great-heart. Pray what principles did he hold? for I 
suppose you can tell. 
Self-will's Hon. He held that a man might follow the Vices as 

well as the Vertues of the Pilgrims, and that if he did 
both he should be certainly saved. 

Great-heart. How? if he had said 'tis possible for the 
best to be guilty of the Vices, as well as to partake of the 
Vertues of Pilgrims, he could not much have been 
blamed. For indeed we are exempted from no Vice 
absolutely, but on condition that we watch and strive. 
But this I perceive is not the thing; but if I understand 
you right, your meaning is, that he was of that opinion, 
that it was allowable so to be? 

Hon. Ay, ay, so I mean, and so he believed and prac- 

Great-heart. But what Ground had he for his so 

Hon. Why, he said he had the Scripture for his War- 

Great-heart. Prithee, Mr Honest, present us with a few 

Hon. So I will. He said to have to do with other men's 
Wives had been practised by David, God's beloved, and 
therefore he could do it. He said to have more Women 
than one, was a thing that Solomon practised, and there- 
fore he could do it. He said that Sarah and the godly 
Midwives of Egypt lied, and so did save Rahab, and 
therefore he could do it. He said that the Disciples went 
at the bidding of their Master, and took away the owner's 
Ass, and therefore he could do so too. He said that Jacob 
got the Inheritance of his Father in a way of Guile and 
Dissimulation, and therefore he could do so too. 

pilgrim's progress 261 

Great-heart. High base indeed, and you are sure he 
was of this opinion? 

Hon. I have heard him plead for it, bring Scripture 
for it, bring Argument for it, &c. 

Great-heart. An opinion that is not fit to be with any 
allowance in the world. 

Hon. You must understand me rightly. He did not 
say that any man might do this, but that those that had 
the Vertues of those that did such things, might also do 
the same. 

Great-heart. But what more false than such a conclu- 
sion? for this is as much as to say, that because good men 
heretofore have sinned of infirmity, therefore he had 
allowance to do it of a presumptuous mind. Or if be- 
cause a Child by the Blast of the Wind, or for that it 
stumbled at a Stone, fell down and defiled itself in mire, 
therefore he might wilfully lie down and wallow like a 
Boar therein. Who could a thought that any one could 
so far a been blinded by the power of Lust? But what 
is written must be true. They stumble at the word being 
disobedient, whereunto also they were appointed. 

His supposing that such may have the godly man's 
Vertues, who addict themselves to their Vices, is also a 
delusion as strong as the other. 'Tis just as if the Dog 
should say, I have or may have the qualities of the Child, 
because I lick up its stinking Excrements. To eat up 
the Sin of God's People, is no sign of one that is possessed 
with their Vertues. Nor can I believe that one that is of 
this opinion can at present have Faith or Love in him. 
But I know you have made strong objections against him, 
prithee what can he say for himself? 

Hon. Why, he says. To do this by way or opinion, seems 
abundance more honest than to do it, and yet hold con- 
trary to it in opinion. 

Great-heart. A very wicked answer, for tho' to let loose 
the Bridle to Lusts while our opinions are against such 

262 pilgrim's progress 

things, is bad; yet to sin and plead a toleration so to do, 
is worse. The one stumbles Beholders accidentally, the 
other pleads them into the Snare. 

Hon. There are many of this man's mind, that have 
not this man's mouth, and that makes going on Pilgrim- 
age of so little esteem as it is. 

Great-heart. You have said the truth, and it is to be 
lamented. But he that feareth the King of Paradise shall 
come out of them all. 

Chris. There are strange opinions in the world, I know 
one that said, 'Twas time enough to repent when they 
come to die. 

Great-heart. Such are not over wise. That man would 
a been loth, might he have had a Week to run twenty 
mile in for his life, to have deferred that Journey to the 
last hour of that Week. 

Hon. You say right, and yet the generality of them 
that count themselves Pilgrims do indeed do thus. I 
am, as you see, an old man, and have been a traveller 
in this road many a day, and I have taken notice of many 

I have seen some that have set out as if they would 
drive all the world afore them, who yet have in few days 
died as they in the Wilderness, and so never gat sight of 
the Promised Land. 

I have seen some that have promised nothing at first 
setting out to be Pilgrims, and that one would a thought 
could not have lived a day, that have yet proved very 
good Pilgrims. 

I have seen some who have spoke very well of that 
again have after a little time run as fast just back 

I have seen some who have spoke very well of a Pil- 
grim's life at first, that after a while have spoken as much 
against it. 

I have heard some when they first set out for Paradise, 
say positively there is such a place, who when they have 

p. 128 

pilgrim's progress 263 

been almost there, have come back again and said there 
is none. 

I have heard some vaunt what they would do in case 
they should be opposed, that have even at a false alarm 
fled Faith, the Pilgrim's way, and all. 

Now as they were thus in their way, there came one ^'^^ "«'" 
running to meet them, and said, Gentlemen and you 
of the weaker sort, if you love Life shift for yourselves, 
for the Robbers are before you. 

Great-heart. Then said Mr Great-heart, They be the F'"* P*"- 
three that set upon Little-faith heretofore. Well, said he, 
we are ready for them. So they went on their way. Now 
they looked at every turning, when they should a met Great- 
with the Villains; but whether they heard of Mr Great- resolution 
heart, or whether they had some other game, they came 
not up to the Pilgrims. 

Christiana then wished for an Inn for herself and her Christiana 
Children, because they were weary. Then said Mr Hon- (^^ ^„ ;„„ 
est. There is one a little before us, where a very honorable 
Disciple, one Gaius, dwells. So they all concluded to turn Gaius 
in thither, and the rather because the old Gentleman gave 
him so good a report. So when they came to the door, Jhey enter 
they went in, not knocking, for Folks use not to knock \^Qyi^ 
at the door of an Inn. Then they called for the Master 
of the house, and he came to them. So they asked if they 
might lie there that night? 

Gaius. Yes Gentlemen, if you be true men, for my Gaius 
house is for none but Pilgrims. Then was Christiana, ^hemr "" 
Mercy and the Boys the more glad, for that the Innkeeper and how 
was a lover of Pilgrims. So they called for Rooms, and 
he shewed them one for Christiana and her Children and 
Mercy, and another for Mr Great-heart and the old 

Great-heart. Then said Mr Great-heart, Good Gaius, 
what hast thou for Supper.' for these Pilgrims have come 
far to-day, and are weary. 

Gaius. It is late, said Gaius, so we cannot conveniently 



Gaius and 
bU guests 

Mark this 

Of Chris- 




go out to seek food, but such as we have you shall be 
welcome to, if that will content. 

Great-heart. We will be content with what thou hast 
in the house, forasmuch as I have proved thee, thou art 
never destitute of that which is convenient. 

Then he went down and spake to the Cook, whose 
name was Taste-that-which-is-good, to get ready Supper 
for so many Pilgrims. This done, he comes up again, 
saying, Come my good Friends, you are welcome to me, 
and I am glad that I have a house to entertain you; and 
while Supper is making ready, if you please, let us enter- 
tain one another with some good discourse. So they 
all said. Content. 

Gaius. Then said Gaius, Whose Wife is this aged Ma- 
tron? and whose Daughter is this young Damsel? 

Great-heart. The Woman is the Wife of one Christian 
a Pilgrim of former times, and these are his four Chil- 
dren. The Maid is one of her Acquaintance, one that 
she hath persuaded to come with her on Pilgrimage. The 
Boys take all after their Father, and covet to tread in his 
steps; yea, if they do but see any place where the old 
Pilgrim hath lain, or any print of his foot, it ministreth 
joy to their hearts, and they covet to lie or tread in the 

Gaius. Then said Gaius, Is this Christian's Wife? and 
are these Christian's Children? I knew your Husband's 
Father, yea, also his Father's Father. Many have been 
good of this stock, their Ancestors dwelt first at Antioch. 
Christian's Progenitors (I suppose you have heard your 
Husband talk of them) were very worthy men. They 
have above any that I know, shewed themselves men of 
great Vertue and Courage for the Lord of Pilgrims, his 
ways, and them that loved him. I have heard of many 
of your Husband's Relations that have stood all trials 
for the sake of the Truth. Stephen that was one of the 
first of the Family from whence your Husband sprang, 
was knocked o' the head with Stones. James, another 

pilgrim's prcxjress 265 

of this Generation, was slain with the edge of the Sword. 
To say nothing of Paul and Peter, men antiently of the 
Family from whence your Husband came, there was 
Ignatius who was cast to the Lions, Rotnanus whose flesh 
was cut by pieces from his bones, and Polycarp that 
played the man in the Fire. There was he that was 
hanged up in a Basket in the Sun for the Wasps to eat, 
and he whom they put into a Sack and cast him into the 
Sea to be drowned. 'T would be impossible utterly to 
count up all of that Family that have suffered Injuries 
and Death for the love of a Pilgrim's life. Nor can I but 
be glad to see that thy Husband has left behind him 
four such Boys as these. I hope they will bear up their 
Father's name, and tread in their Father's steps, and 
come to their Father's end. 

Great-heart. Indeed Sir, they are likely Lads, they 
seem to chuse heartily their Father's ways. 

Gaius. That is it that I said, wherefore Christian's Advice to 
Family is like still to spread abroad upon the face of the j^om^^* 
ground, and yet to be numerous upon the face of the her boys 
earth. Wherefore let Christiana look out some Damsels 
for her Sons, to whom they may be betrothed, &c. that 
the name of their Father and the house of his Progenitors 
may never be forgotten in the world. 

Hon. 'Tis pity this Family should fall and be extinct. 

Gaius. Fall it cannot, but be diminished it may; but 
let Christiana take my advice, and that's the way to 
uphold it. 

And Christiana, said this Innkeeper, I am glad to see Mercy and 
thee and thy friend Mercy together here, a lovely couple. 
And may I advise, take Mercy into a nearer Relation to 
thee. If she will, let her be given to Matthew thy eldest 
Son, 'tis the way to preserve you a Posterity in the earth. 
So this match was concluded, and in process of time they 
were married. But more of that hereafter. 

Gaius also proceeded and said, I will now sf)eak on 
the behalf of Women, to take away their Reproach. For 



of old 
so much 


What to be 
from lay- 
ing of the 
with the 
cloth and 


as Death and the Curse came into the world by a Woman, 
so also did Life and Health: God sent forth his Son. made 
of a Woman. Yea, to shew how much those that came 
after did abhor the act of their Mother, this sex in the 
Old Testament coveted Children, if happily this or that 
Woman might be the Mother of the Saviour of the 

I will say again, that when the Saviour was come, 
Women rejoiced in him before either Man or Angel. 
I read not, that ever any Man did give unto Christ so 
much as one Groat, but the Women followed him and 
ministered to him of their Substance. 'Twas a Woman 
that washed his Feet with Tears, and a Woman that 
anointed his Body to the Burial. They were Women that 
wept when he was going to the Cross, and Women that 
followed him from the Cross, and that sat by his Sep- 
ulchre when he was buried. They were Women that 
was first with him at his Resurrection-morn, and Women 
that brought tiding first to his Disciples that he was risen 
from the Dead. Women therefore are highly favoured, 
and shew by these things that they are sharers with us 
in the Grace of Life. 

Now the Cook sent up to signify that Supper was 
almost ready, and sent one to lay the Cloath, the Trench- 
ers, and to set the Salt and Bread in order. 

Then said Matthew, The sight of this Cloath and of 
this forerunner of the Supper, begetteth in me a greater 
Appetite to my food than I had before. 

Gains. So let all ministring doctrines to thee in this 
life, beget in thee a greater desire to sit at the Supper of 
the great King in his Kingdom; for all Preaching Books 
and Ordinances here, are but as the laying of the Trench- 
ers and as setting of Salt upon the Board, when compared 
with the Feast that our Lord v/ill make for us when we 
come to his House. 

So Supper came up, and first a Heave-shoulder and 
a Wave-breast was set on the Table before them, to shew 

pilgrim's progress 267 

that they must begin their meal with Prayer and Praise 
to God. The Heave-shoulder David lifted his Heart up 
to God with, and with the Wave-breast, where his Heart 
lay, with that he used to lean upon his Harp when he 
played. These two Dishes were very fresh and good, and 
they all eat heartily well thereof. 

The next 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 makes glad the heart of 
God and Man. So they drank and were merry. 

The next was a dish of Milk well crumbed. But Gaius ^ ''"^ 
said, Let the Boys have that, that they may grow thereby. 

Then they brought up in course a dish of Butter and ° j''^'' 
Hony. Then said Gains, Eat freely of this, for this is good 
to cheer up and strengthen your Judgments and Under- 
standings. This was our Lord's dish when he was a 
Child, Butter and Hony shall he eat, that he may l^now 
to refuse the Evil and chuse the Good. 

Then they brought them up a dish of Apples, and they ^ duh^ 
were very good tasted Fruit. Then said Matthew, May 
we eat Apples, since they were such, by and with which 
the Serpent beguiled our first Mother ? 

Then said Gaius, 

Apples were they with which we were beguil'd. 
Yet sin, not Apples, hath our souls defil'd. 
Apples forbid, if eat, corrupts the Blood; 
To eat such when commanded, does us good. 
Drink of his Flagons, then, thou Church, his Dove, 
And eat his Apples, who are sick of Love. 

Then said Matthew, I made the scruple because I a 
while since was sick with eating of Fruit. 

Gaius. Forbidden Fruit will make you sick, but not 
what our Lord has tolerated. 

While they were thus talking, they were presented with A dish 
another dish, and 'twas a dish of Nuts. Tlien said some 
at the Table, Nuts spoil tender Teeth, specially the Teeth 
of Children; which when Gaius heard, he said, 

of apples 


A riddle 
put forth 
by Old 

opens it 


and Mercy 


Hard Texts are Nuts (I will not call them cheaters) 
Whose Shells do keep their Kernels from the Eaters. 
Ofje then the Shells, and you shall have the Meat, 
They here are brought for you to crack and eat. 

Then were they very merry, and sat at the Table a 
long time, talking of many things. Then said the old 
Gentleman, My good Landlord, while we are cracking 
your Nuts, if you please, do you open this Riddle: 

A man there was, tho' some did count him mad. 
The more he cast away the more he had. 

Then they all gave good heed, wondring what good 
Gaius would say; so he sat still a while, and then thus 
replied : 

He that bestows his Goods upon the Poor, 
Shall have as much again, and ten times more. 

Then said Joseph, I dare say Sir, I did not think you 
could a found it out. 

Oh, said Gaius, I have been trained up in this way a 
great while, nothing teaches like experience. I have 
learned of my Lord to be kind, and have found by experi- 
ence that 1 have gained thereby. There is that scattereth, 
yet increaseth, and there is that withholdeth more than is 
meet, but it tendeth to Poverty. There is that maketh 
himself Rich, yet hath nothing, there is that ma{eth him- 
self Poor, yet hath 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 mar- 
ried here to Mercy before we go any further. 

The which Gaius the Host overhearing said, With a 
very good will, my Child. 

So they stayed there more than a month, and Mercy 
was given to Matthew to Wife. 

While they stayed here, Mercy, as her custom was, 
would be making Coats and Garments to the Poor, by 

pilgrim's progress 269 

which she brought up a very good report upon the 

But to return again to our Story. After Supper the The boj^ 
Lads desired a Bed, for that they were weary with ,j,e rest ' 
travelling. Then Gaius called to shew them their cham- "t up 
her, but said Mercy. I will have them to Bed. So she had 
them to Bed, and they slept well. But the rest sat up all 
night, for Gaius and they were such suitable Company 
that they could not tell how to part. Then after much 
talk of their Lord, themselves, and their Journey, old Mr 
Honest, he that put forth the riddle to Gaius, began to 
nod. Then said Great-heart, What Sir, you begin to be Old Hon- 
drowsy, come, rub up, now here's a Riddle for you. "' ° ' 
Then said Mr Honest, Let's hear it. 

Then said Mr Great-heart: 

He that will kill, must first be overcome; A riddle 

Who live abroad would, first must die at home. 

Hah, said Mr Honest, it is a hard one, hard to expound, 
and harder to practise. But come Landlord, said he, I will 
if you please, leave my part to you, do you expound it, 
and I will hear what you say. 

No said Gaius, 'twas put to you, and 'tis expected that 
you should answer it. 

Then said the old Gentleman, 

He first by Grace must conquer'd be. The riddle 

That Sin would mortify; opened 

And who, that lives, would convince me, 
Unto himself must die. 

It is right, said Gaius, good Doctrine and Experience 
teaches this. For First, until Grace displays itself, and 
overcomes the soul with its Glory, it is altogether without 
heart to oppose Sin. Besides, if Sin is Satan's Cords by 
which the soul lies bound, how should it make resistance 
before it is loosed from that infirmity ? 

Secondly, Nor will any that knows either Reason or 


A question 
worth the 

A com- 

A mistake 



Grace, believe that such a man can be a living Monument 
of Grace that is a Slave to his own Corruptions. 

And now it comes in my mind, I will tell you a Story 
worth the hearing. There were two men that went on 
Pilgrimage, the one began when he was young, the other 
when he was old. The young man had strong Corrup- 
tions to grapple with, the old man's were decayed with 
the decays of nature. The young man trod his steps as 
even as did the old one, and was every way as light as 
he. Who now, or which of them, had their Graces shin- 
ing clearest, since both seemed to be alike? 

Hon. The young man's, doubtless. For that which 
heads it against the greatest opposition, gives best dem- 
onstration that it is strongest. Specially when it also 
holdeth pace with that that meets not with half so much, 
as to be sure old age does not. 

Besides, I have observed that old men have blessed 
themselves with this mistake, namely, taking the decays 
of Nature for a gracious Conquest over Corruptions, and 
so have been apt to beguile themselves. Indeed old men 
that are gracious are best able to give advice to them 
that are young, because they have seen most of the empti- 
ness of things. But yet, for an old and a young to set 
out both together, the young one has the advantage of 
the fairest discovery of a work of Grace within him, tho 
the old man's Corruptions are naturally the weakest. 

Thus they sat talking till break of day. Now when 
the Family was up, Christiana bid her Son James that 
he should read a Chapter, so he read the 53d of Isaiah. 
When he had done, Mr Honest asked, why it was said 
that the Saviour is said to come out of a dry ground, and 
also that he had no form nor comeliness in him? 

Great-heart. Then said Mr Great-heart, To the First 
I answer, Because the Church of the Jews, of which 
Christ came, had then lost almost all the Sap and Spirit 
of Religion. To the Second I say, the words are spoken 
in the person of the Unbelievers, who because they want 


that Eye that can see into our Prince's Heart, therefore 
they judge of him by the meanness of his Outside. Just 
like those that know not that Precious Stones are covered 
over with a homely Crust, who when they have found 
one, because they know not what they have found, cast 
it again away as men do a common Stone. 

Well, said Gaius, now you are here, and since, as I S'*"V. 
know, Mr Great-heart is good at his Weapons, if you assaulted 
please, after we have refreshed ourselves, we will walk ""^ *'»"> 
into the Fields to see if we can do any good. About a 
mile from hence there is one Slay-good, a Giant that doth 
much annoy the King's High-way in these parts; and 
I know whereabout his Haunt is. He is Master of a 
number of Thieves. 'T would be well if we could clear 
these parts of him. 

So they consented and went, Mr Great-heart with his 
Sword, Helmet and Shield, and the rest with Spears and 

When they came to the place where he was, they found *^<^ j? 
him with one Feeble-mind in his hands, whom his with one 
Servants had brought unto him, having taken him in the F«ble- 
way. Now the Giant was rifling of him, with a purpose his hands 
after that to pick his Bones, for he was of the nature of 

Well, so soon as he saw Mr Great-heart and his Friends 
at the Mouth of his cave with their Weapons, he de- 
manded what they wanted? 

Great-heart. We want thee, for we are come to revenge 
the quarrel of the many that thou hast slain of the Pil- 
grims, when thou hast dragged thern out of the King's 
High-way, wherefore come out of thy Cave. So he armed 
himself and came out, and to a Battle they went, and 
fought for above an hour and then stood still to take 

Slay. Then said the Giant, Why are you here on my 

Great-heart. To revenge the Blood of Pilgrims, as I 



mind res- 
cued from 
the giant 



came to be 
a pilgrim 


also told thee before. So they went to it again, and the 
Giant made Mr Great-heart give back; but he came up 
again, and in the greatness of his mind he let fly with 
such stoutness at the Giant's head and sides, that he made 
him let his Weapon fall out of his hand. So he smote 
him and slew him, and cut off his Head, and brought 
it away to the Inn. He also took Feeble-mind the Pilgrim, 
and brought him with him to his Lodgings. When they 
were come home, they shewed his head to the Family, 
and then set it up, as they had done others before, 
for a terror to those that should attempt to do as he 

Then they asked Mr Feeble-mind how he fell into his 

Feeble-mind. Then said the poor man, I am a sickly 
man as you see, and, because Death did usually once a 
day knock at my door, I thought I should never be well 
at home; so I betook myself to a Pilgrim's life, and have 
travelled hither from the Town of Uncertain, where I 
and my Father were born. I am a man of no strength at 
all of body, nor yet of mind; but would if I could, tho' 
I can but crawl, spend my life in the Pilgrim's way. 
When I came at the Gate that is at the head of the way, 
the Lord of that place did entertain me freely, neither 
objected he against my weakly looks, nor against my 
feeble mind; but gave me such things that were neces- 
sary for my Journey, and bid me hope to the end. When 
I came to the house of the Interpreter, I received much 
kindness there, and because the Hill Difficulty was 
judged too hard for me, I was carried up that by one 
of his servants. Indeed I have found much relief from 
Pilgrims, tho' none was willing to go so softly as I am 
forced to do; yet still as they came on, they bid me be of 
good cheer, and said that it was the will of their Lord 
that comfort should be given to the feeble-minded, and 
so went on their own pace. When I was come up to 
Assault Lane, then this Giant met with me, and bid me 


prepare for an Encounter; but alas, feeble one that I was, 

I had more need of a Cordial. So he came up and took Mark this 

me. I conceited he should not kill me. Also when he had 

got me into his Den, since I went not with him willingly, 

I believed I should come out alive again; for I have heard 

that not only any Pilgrim that is taken captive by violent 

hands, if he keeps heart-whole towards his Master, is by 

the Laws of Providence to die by the hand of the Enemy. 

Robbed I looked to be, and robbed to be sure I am; but 

I am, as you see, escaped with Life, for the which I thank 

my King as Author, and you as the Means. Other brunts 

I also look for, but this I have resolved on, to wit, to run ^"^ •^'* 

when I can, to go when I cannot run, and to creep when 

I cannot go. As to the main, I thank him that loves me, 

I am fixed. My way is before me, my Mind is beyond 

the River that has no Bridge, tho' I am, as you see, but of 

a jeeble Mind. 

Hon. Then said old Mr Honest, Have you not some 
time ago been acquainted with one Mr Fearing a Pil- 

grim ? 

Feeble. Acquainted with him. Yes. He came from the 

Mr Fear- 
ing, Mr 

Town of Stupidity, which lieth four degrees to the north- Fecbl 


ward of the City of Destruction, and as many off of where """'' ' 

I was born; yet we were well acquainted, for indeed 
he was mine Uncle, my Father's Brother. He and I have 
been much of a temper. He was a little shorter than I, 
but yet we were much of a complexion. 

Hon. I perceive you know him, and I am apt to believe ^^^' 
also that you were related one to another; for you have has some 
his whitely Look, a Cast like his with your eye, and your p^JJ^J, . 
Sfjeech is much alike. features 

Feeble. Most have said so that have known us both, 

and besides, what I have read in him, I have for the most 

part found in myself. 

Gaius. Come Sir, said good Gaius, be of good cheer, Gaiu$ com- 
1 11 111 forts him 

you are welcome to me and to my house, and what thou 

hast a mind to, call for freely; and what thou would'st 


Notice to 
be taken of 

how one 
was slain 
with a 
and Mr 
upon it 


to go 

How they 
greet one 
another at 


have my servants to do for thee, they will do it with a 
ready mind. 

Then said Mr Feeble-mind, This is unexpected Favour, 
and as the Sun shining out of a very dark Cloud. Did 
Giant Slay-good intend me this favour when he stopped 
me, and resolved to let me go no further ? Did he intend 
that after he had rifled my Pockets, I should go to Gaius 
mine Host? Yet so it is. 

Now just as Mr Feeble-mind and Gaius was thus in 
talk, there comes one running and called at the door, and 
told, That about a mile and a half off there was one Mr 
Not-right a Pilgrim struck dead upon the place where he 
was with a Thunderbolt. 

Feeble. Alas, said Mr Feeble-mind, is he slain? He 
overtook me some days before I came so far as hither, 
and would be my Company-keeper. He also was with 
me when Slay-good the Giant took me, but he was nimble 
of his heels and escaped. But it seems he escaped to die, 
and I was took to live. 

What one would think doth seek to slay outright, 

Ofttimes delivers from the saddest plight. 

That very Providence whose face is Death, 

Doth ofttimes to the lowly Life bequeath. 

I taken was, he did escape and flee. 

Hands cross'd gives Death to him, and Life to me. 

Now about this time Matthew and Mercy were mar- 
ried. Also Gaius gave his Daughter Phebe to James, 
Matthew's Brother, to Wife; after which time they yet 
stayed above ten days at Gaius's house, spending their 
time and the seasons like as Pilgrims use to do. 

When they were to depart, Gaius made them a Feast, 
and they did eat and drink and were merry. Now the 
hour was come that they must be gone, wherefore Mr 
Great-heart called for a Reckoning. But Gaius told him 
that at his house it was not the custom for Pilgrims to 
pay for their Entertainment. He boarded them by the 
year, but looked for his pay from the good Samaritan, 


who had promised him at his return, whatsoever charge 
he was at with them faithfully to repay him. Then said 
Mr Great-heart to him, 

Great-heart. Beloved, thou dost faithfully whatsoever 
thou dost to the Brethren and to Strangers, which have 
borne witness of thy Charity before the Church; whom 
if thou (yet) bring forward on their Journey after a 
Godly sort, thou shalt do well. 

Then Gaius took his leave of them all, and of his Chil- 9"^^. ^'f 
dren, and particularly of Mr Feeble-mind. He also gave ncss to 
him something to drink by the way. Fecble- 

Now Mr Feeble-mind, when they were going out of 
the door, made as if he intended to linger. The which 
when Mr Great-heart espied, he said, Come Mr Feeble- 
mind, pray do you go along with us, I will be your Con- 
ductor, and you shall fare as the rest. 

Feeble. Alas, I want a suitable Companion, you are all ^^^j.^) 
lusty and strong, but I, as you see, am weak. I chuse going 
therefore rather to come behind, lest by reason of my behind 
many Infirmities I should be both a Burden to myself 
and to you. I am, as I said, a man of a weak and feeble 
mind, and shall be offended and made weak at that which 
others can bear. I shall like no Laughing, I shall like no 
gay Attire, I shall like no unprofitable Questions. Nay I 
am so weak a man, as to be offended with that which 
others have a liberty to do. I do not yet know all the 
Truth. I am a very ignorant Christian man. Sometimes His excuse 
if I hear some rejoice in the Lord, it troubles me because 
I cannot do so too. It is with me as it is with a weak man 
among the strong, or as with a sick man among the 
healthy, or as a Lamp despised, (He that is ready to slip 
with his feet, is as a Lamp despised in the thought of him 
that is at ease.) So that I know not what to do. 

Great-heart. But Brother, said Mr Great-heart, I have Great- 
it in Commission to comfort the feeble-minded, and to commission 
support the weak. You must needs go along with us; 
we will wait for you, we will lend you our help, we will 


A Chris- 
tian spirit 


mind glad 
to see 
come by 

New talk 

First Part, 
pp. 59-68 


deny ourselves of some things both opinionative and 
practical for your sake, we will not enter into doubtful 
disputations before you, we will be made all things to 
you rather than you shall be left behind. 

Now all this while they were at Gaius's door; and 
behold as they were thus in the heat of their discourse 
Mr Ready-to-halt came by with his Crutches in his hand, 
and he also was going on Pilgrimage. 

Feeble. Then said Mr Feeble-mind to him, Man, how 
camest thou hither? I was but just now complaining 
that I had not a suitable Companion, but thou art accord- 
ing to my wish. Welcome, welcome, good Mr Ready-to- 
halt, I hope thee and I may be some help. 

Ready-to-halt. I shall be glad of thy Company, said 
the other; and good Mr Feeble-mind, rather than we 
will part, since we are thus happily met, I will lend thee 
one of my Crutches. 

Feeble. Nay, said he, tho' I thank thee for thy good 
will, I am not inclined to halt before I am lame. Howbe- 
it, I think when occasion is, it may help me against a E)og. 

Ready. If either myself or my Crutches can do thee a 
pleasure, we are both at thy command, good Mr Feeble- 

Thus therefore they went on, Mr Great-heart and Mr 
Honest went before, Christiana and her Children went 
next, and Mr Feeble-mind and Mr Ready-to-halt came 
behind with his Crutches. Then said Mr Honest, 

Hon. Pray Sir, now we are upon the Road, tell us some 
profitable things of some that have gone on Pilgrimage 
before us. 

Great-heart. With a good will. I suppose you have 
heard how Christian of old did meet with Apollyon in 
the Valley of Humiliation, and also what hard work he 
had to go through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 
Also I think you cannot but have heard how Faithful was 
put to it with Madam Wanton, with Adam the First, 


with one Discontent, and Shame, four as deceitful Vil- 
lains as a man can meet with upon the road. 

Hon. Yes, I have heard of all this; but indeed good 
Faithful was hardest put to it with Shame, he was an 
unwearied one. 

Great-heart. Ay, for as the Pilgrim well said, he of 
all men had the wrong name. 

Hon. But pray Sir, where was it that Christian and F>nt Part, 
Faithful met TalJ{ative? That same was also a notable 

Great-heart. He was a confident Fool, yet many follow 
his ways. 

Hon. He had like to a beguiled Faithful. 

Great-heart. Ay, but Christian put him into a way ^^"^ P"*' 
quickly to find him out. Thus they went on till they 
came at the place where Evangelist met with Christian 
and Faithful, and prophesied to them of what should 
befall them at Vanity Fair. 

Great-heart. Then said their Guide, Hereabouts did 
Christian and Faithful meet with Evangelist, who pro- 
phesied to them of what Troubles they should meet with 
at Vanity Fair. 

Hon. Say you so? I dare say it was a hard Chapter 
that then he did read unto them. 

Great-heart. 'Twas so; but he gave them encourage- First Part, 
ment withal. But what do we talk of them? they were ^' '°° 
a couple of lion-like men, they had set their faces like 
flint. Don't you remember how undaunted they were 
when they stood before the Judge? 

Hon. Well, Faithful bravely suffered. 

Great-heart. So he did, and as brave things came on't, 
for Hopeful and some others, as the Story relates it, were 
converted by his Death. 

Hon. Well, but pray go on, for you are well acquainted 
with things. 

Great-heart. Above all that Christian met with after 


Firit Part, 
p. 102 

They are 
sight of 

enter into 
one Mr 

to lodge 

They are 
glad of 


he had passed through Vanity Fair, one By-ends was 
the arch one. 

Hon. By-ends, What was he? 

Great-heart. A very arch Fellow, a downright Hypo- 
crite. One that would be religious which way ever the 
World went, but so cunning that he would be sure 
neither to lose nor suffer for it. He had his mode of 
Religion for every fresh occasion, and his Wife was as 
good at it as he. He would turn and change from opin- 
ion to opinion, yea, and plead for so doing too. But so 
far as I could learn, he came to an ill end with his by- 
ends, nor did I ever hear that any of his Children were 
ever of any esteem with any that truly feared God. 

Now by this time they were come within sight of the 
Town of Vanity where Vanity Fair is kept. So when 
they saw that they were so near the Town, they consulted 
with one another how they should pass through the 
Town, and some said one thing and some another. At 
last Mr Great-heart said, I have, as you may understand, 
often been a Conductor of Pilgrims through this Town, 
now I am acquainted with one Mr Mnason, a Cyprusian 
by Nation, an old Disciple, at whose house we may lodge. 
If you think good, said he, we will turn in there. 

Content, said old Honest, Content, said Christiana, 
Content said Mr Feeble-mind, and so they said all. Now 
you must think it was eventide by that they got to the 
outside of the Town, but Mr Great-heart knew the way 
to the old man's house. So thither they came; and he 
called at the door, and the old man within knew his 
tongue so soon as ever he heard it; so he opened, and they 
all came in. Then said Mnason their Host, How far have 
ye come to-day.' so they said. From the house of Gaius 
our Friend. I promise you, said he, you have gone a good 
stitch, you may well be a weary, sit down. So they sat 

Great-heart. Then said their Guide, Come, what cheer 
Sirs.'' I dare say you are welcome to my Friend. 


Mnason. I also, said Mr Mnason, do bid you welcome, 
and whatever you want, do but say, and we will do what 
we can to get it for you. 

Hon. Our great want a while since was Harbour and 
good Company, and now I hope we have both. 

Mnason. For Harbour, you see what it is, but for good 
Company, that will appear in the trial. 

Great-heart. Well, said Mr Great-heart, will you have 
the Pilgrims up into their Lodging? 

Mnason. I will, said Mr Mnason. So he had them to 
their respective places; and also shewed them a very fair 
Dining-room, where they might be and sup together, 
until time was come to go to Rest. 

Now when they were set in their places, and were 
a little cheery after their Journey, Mr Honest asked his 
Landlord if there were any store of good people in the 
Town ? 

Mnason. We have a few, for indeed they are but a few 
when compared with them on the other side. J''*y 

Hon. But how shall we do to see some of them ? for see some 
the sight of good men to them that are going on Pilgrim- °^^^ 
age, is like to the appearing of the Moon and the Stars pje of 
to them that are sailing upon the Seas. '•>•= '°w" 

Then Mr Mnason stamped with his foot, and his ^^^ """ 
daughter Grace came up; so he said unto her, Grace, go 
you tell my Friends, Mr Contrite, Mr Holy-man, Mr 
Love-saint, Mr Dare-not-lye, and Mr Penitent, that I 
have a Friend or two at my house that have a mind this 
evening to see them. 

So Grace went to call them, and they came and after 
Salutation made, they sat down together at the Table. 

Then said Mr Mnason their Landlord, My Neighbors, 
I have, as you see, a Company of Strangers come to my 
house, they are Pilgrims, they come from afar, and are 
going to Mount Sion. But who, quoth he, do you think 
this is, pointing with his finger to Christiana, it is Chris- 
tiana the Wife of Christian that famous Pilgrim, who 


Some talk 
Mr Hon- 
est and 

The fruit 
of watch- 

tion not 
so hot at 
Fair as 


with Faithful his Brother were so shamefully handled in 
our Town. At that they stood amazed, saying, We little 
thought to see Christiana, when Grace came to call us, 
wherefore this is a very comfortable surprise. Then they 
asked her of her welfare, and if these young men were 
her Husband's Sons ? And when she had told them they 
were, they said. The King whom you love and serve, 
make you as your Father, and bring you where he is in 

Hon. Then Mr Honest (when they were all sat down) 
asked Mr Contrite and the rest in what posture their 
Town was at present? 

Contrite. You may be sure we are full of hurry in 
Fair-time. 'Tis hard keeping our hearts and spirits in 
any good order, when we are in a cumbered condition. 
He that lives in such a place as this is, and that has to do 
with such as we have, has need of an Item, to caution 
him to take heed every moment of the day. 

Hon. But how are your Neighbors for quietness.'' 

Contrite. They are much more moderate now than 
formerly. You know how Christian and Faithful were 
used at our Town; but of late, I say, they have been far 
more moderate. I think the blood of Faithful lieth with 
load upon them till now, for since they burned him they 
have been ashamed to burn any more. In those days we 
were afraid to walk the Streets, but now we can shew 
our heads. Then the name of a Professor was odious, 
now, specially in some parts of our Town (for you know 
our Town is large) Religion is counted honourable. 

Then said Mr Contrite to them. Pray how fareth it 
with you in your Pilgrimage? How stands the Country 
affected towards you ? 

Hon. It happens to us as it happeneth to Wayfaring 
men; sometimes our way is clean, sometimes foul, some- 
times up hill, sometimes down hill. We are seldom at a 
certainty, the Wind is not always on our backs, nor is 
every one a Friend that we meet with in the way. We 

pilgrim's progress 281 

have met with some notable Rubs already, and what are 
yet behind we know not, but for the most part we find 
it true that has been talked of of old, A good man must 
suffer Trouble. 

Contrite. You talk of Rubs, what Rubs have you met 
withal ? 

Hon. Nay, ask Mr Great-heart our Guide, for he can 
give the best account of that. 

Great-heart. We have been beset three or four times 
already. First Christiana and her Children were beset 
with two Ruffians, that they feared would a took away 
their lives. We was beset with Giant Bloody-man, Giant 
Maul and Giant Slay-good. Indeed we did rather beset 
the last, than were beset of him. And thus it was: After 
we had been some time at the house of Gaius, mine Host 
and of the whole Church, we were minded upon a time 
to take our Weapons with us, and so go see if we could 
light upon any of those that were Enemies to Pilgrims, 
(for we heard that there was a notable one thereabouts). 
Now Gaius knew his Haunt better than I, because he 
dwelt thereabout, so we looked and looked till at last we 
discerned the Mouth of his Cave, then we were glad 
and plucked up our Spirits. So we approached up to his 
Den, and lo when we came there, he had dragged by 
mere force into his Net this {xxjr Man Mr Feeble-mind, 
and was about to bring him to his end. But when he 
saw us, supposing as we thought he had had another 
Prey, he left the poor man in his Hole, and came out. 
So we fell to it full sore, and he lustily laid about him; 
but in conclusion he was brought down to the ground, 
and his Head cut off, and set up by the Way-side for a 
terror to such as should after practise such Ungodliness. 
That I tell you the truth, here is the man himself to 
affirm it, who was as a Lamb taken out of the Mouth 
of the Lion. 

Feeble-mind. Then said Mr Feeble-mind, I found this 
true to my Cost and Comfort, to my Cost when he 


Mr Holy- 

Mr Love- 

Mr Dare- 



Mr Peni- 


threatened to pick my Bones every moment, and to my 
Comfort when I saw Mr Great-heart and his Friends 
with their Weapons approach so near for my Deliverance. 

Holy-man. Then said Mr Holy-man, There are two 
things that they have need to be possessed with that go 
on Pilgrimage, courage, and an unspotted life. If they 
have not courage, they can never hold on their way, and 
if their Lives be loose, they will make the very name of 
a Pilgrim stink. 

Loue-saint. Then said Mr Love-saint, I hope this cau- 
tion is not needful amongst you. But truly there are 
many that go upon the road, that rather declare them- 
selves Strangers to Pilgrimage than Strangers and Pil- 
grims in the Earth. 

Dare-not-lye. Then said Mr Dare-not-lye, 'Tis true, 
they neither have the Pilgrim's Weed, nor the Pilgrim's 
Courage; they go not uprightly, but all awry with their 
feet; one Shoe goes inward, another outward, and their 
Hosen out behind; there a Rag, and there a Rent, to the 
Disparagement of their Lord. 

Penitent. These things, said Mr Penitent, they ought 
to be troubled for, nor are the Pilgrims like to have that 
Grace put upon them and their Pilgrim's Progress as they 
desire, until the way is cleared of such Spots and Blem- 

Thus they sat talking and spending the time, until 
Supper was set upon the Table; unto which they went 
and refreshed their weary bodies; so they went to Rest. 
Now they stayed in this Fair a great while at the house 
of this Mr Mnason, who in process of time gave his 
daughter Grace unto Samuel Christiana's Son to Wife, 
and his Daughter Martha to Joseph. 

The time as I said, that they lay here was long, (for 
it was not now as in former times). Wherefore the 
Pilgrims grew acquainted with many of the good people 
of the Town, and did them what service they could. 
Mercy, as she was wont, laboured much for the Poor, 

pilgrim's progress 283 

wherefore their Bellies and Backs blessed her, and she 
was there an Ornament to her Profession. And to say 
the truth for Grace Phebe and Martha, they were all of 
a very good Nature, and did much good in their place. 
They were also all of them very Fruitful, so that Chris- 
tian's name, as was said before, was like to live in the 

While they lay here, there came a Monster out of the A monster 
Woods, and slew many of the people of the Town. It 
would also carry away their Children, and teach them to 
suck its Whelps. Now no man in the Town durst so 
much as face this Monster, but all men fled when they 
heard of the Noise of his coming. 

The Monster was like unto no one Beast upon the J^" shape, 
earth; its Body was like the Dragon, and it had seven 
Heads and ten Horns. It made great havock of Children, 
and yet it was governed by a Woman. This Monster 
propounded Conditions to men, and such men as loved 
their Lives more than their Souls, accepted of those Con- 
ditions. So they came under. 

Now this Mr Great-heart, together with these that came 
to visit the Pilgrims at Mr Mnason's house, entered into 
a Covenant to go and engage this Beast, if perhaps 
they might deliver the people of this Town from the 
Paws and Mouth of this so devouring a Serpent. 

Then did Mr Great-heart, Mr Contrite, Mr Holy-man, How he is 
Mr Dare-not-lye, and Mr Penitent, with their Weapons 
go forth to meet him. Now the Monster at first was very 
rampant, and looked uf)on these Enemies with great 
Disdain, but they so belaboured him, being sturdy men 
at Arms, that they made him make a Retreat. So they 
came home to Mr Mnason's house again. 

The Monster, you must know, had his certain Seasons 
to come out in, and to make his Attempts upon the 
Children of the people of the Town; also these Seasons 
did these valiant Worthies watch him in, and did still 
continually assault him; insomuch that in process of time 

284 pilgrim's progress 

he became not only wounded but lame, also he has not 
made that havock of the Towns-men's Children as 
formerly he has done. And it is verily believed by some, 
that this Beast will die of his Wounds. 

This therefore made Mr Great-heart and his Fellows 
of great Fame in this Town, so that many of the people 
that wanted their taste of things, yet had a reverend 
Esteem and Respect for them. Upon this account there- 
fore it was that these Pilgrims got not much hurt here. 
True there were some of the baser sort, that could see no 
more than a Mole, nor understand more than a Beast, 
these had no reverence for these men, nor took they notice 
of their Valour or Adventures. 

Well the time grew on that the Pilgrims must go on 
their way, wherefore they prepared for their Journey. 
They sent for their Friends, they conferred with them, 
they had some time set apart therein to commit each other 
to the Protection of their Prince. There was again that 
brought them of such things as they had, that was fit 
for the Weak and the Strong, for the Women and the 
Men, and so laded them with such things as was neces- 

Then they set forwards on their way, and their Friends 
accompanying them so far as was convenient, they again 
committed each other to the Protection of their King, 
and parted. 

They therefore that were of the Pilgrims' Company 
went on, and Mr Great-heart went before them. Now 
the Women and Children being weakly, they were forced 
to go as they could bear; by this means Mr Ready-to-halt 
and Mr Feeble-mind had more to sympathize with their 

When they were gone from the Towns-men, and when 
their Friends had bid them farewell they quickly came 
to the place where Faithful was put to Death. There 
therefore they made a stand, and thanked Him that had 
enabled him to bear his Cross so well, and the rather 

pilgrim's progress 285 

because they now found that they had a benefit by such a 
manly Suflering as his was. 

They went on therefore after this a good way fur- 
ther, talking of Christian and Faithful, and how Hope- 
ful joined himself to Christian after that Faithful was 

Now they were come up with the Hill Lucre, where the R"' P"*« 
Silver-mine was, which took Demas off from his Pil- ^' '"' 
grimage, and into which, as some think, By-ends fell and 
perished; wherefore they considered that. But when 
they were come to the old Monument that stood over 
against the Hill Lucre, to wit, to the Pillar of Salt that 
stood also within view of Sodom and its stinking Lake, 
they marvelled, as did Christian before, that men of that 
Knowledge and ripeness of Wit as they was, should be so 
blinded as to turn aside here. Only they considered again 
that Nature is not affected with the Harms that others 
have met with, especially if that thing upon which they 
look has an attracting vertue upon the foolish eye. 

I saw now that they went on till they came at the River R"' ^"^ 
that was on this side of the Delectable Mountains. To the 
River where the fine Trees grow on both sides, and whose 
Leaves, if taken inwardly, are good against Surfeits, 
where the Meadows are green all the year long, and 
where they might lie down safely. 

By this River side in the Meadow there were Cotes and 
Folds for Sheep, an House built for the nourishing and 
bringing up of those Lambs, the Babes of those Women 
that go on Pilgrimage. Also there was here one that was 
intrusted with them who could have Compassion, and 
that could gather these Lambs with his Arm and carry 
them in his Bosom, and that could gently lead those that 
were with young. Now to the care of this Man, Chris- 
tiana admonished her four Daughters to commit their 
little ones, that by these Waters they might be housed, 
harboured, suckered, and nourished, and that none of 
them might be lacking in time to come. This Man, if 


First Part, 
p. 114 


being ccme 
to By-path 
stile, have 
a mind to 
have a 
pluck with 


any of them go astray or be lost, he will bring them again: 
he will also bind up that which was broken, and will 
strengthen them that are sick. Here they will never want 
Meat and Drink and Cloathing, here they will be kept 
from Thieves and Robbers, for this Man will die before 
one of those committed to his trust shall be lost. Besides, 
here they shall be sure to have good Nurture and Ad- 
monition, and shall be taught to walk in right paths, and 
that you know is a Favour of no small account. Also 
here, as you see, are delicate Waters, pleasant Meadows, 
dainty Flowers, variety of Trees, and such as bear whole- 
some Fruit, Fruit not like that that Matthew eat of, that 
fell over the Wall out of Beelzebub's Garden, but Fruit 
that procureth Health where there is none, and that con- 
tinueth and increaseth it where it is. 

So they were content to commit their little ones to him; 
and that which was also an encouragement to them so to 
do, was, for that all this was to be at the Charge of the 
King, and so was as an Hospital for young Children and 

Now they went on; and when they were come to By- 
path Meadow, to the Stile over which Christian went 
with his Fellow Hopeful, when they were taken by 
Giant Despair and put into Doubting Castle, they sat 
down and consulted what was best to be done; to wit, 
now they were so strong, and had got such a man as 
Mr Great-heart for their Conductor, whether they had not 
best make an attempt upon the Giant, demolish his 
Castle, and if there were any Pilgrims in it, to set them 
at liberty before they went any further. So one said 
one thing, and another said the contrary. One questioned 
if it was lawful to go upon unconsecrated ground, another 
said they might provided their end was good, but Mr 
Great-heart said. Though that Assertion offered last 
cannot be universally true, yet I have a Commandment 
to resist Sin, to overcome Evil, to fight the good Fight of 
Faith, and I pray, with whom should I fight this good 

pilgrim's progress 287 

Fight, if not with Giant Despair? I will therefore attempt 
the taking away of his Life, and the demolishing of 
Doubting Castle. Then said he, who will go with me? 
Then said old Honest, I will. And so will we too, said 
Christiana's jour Sons, Matthew Samuel James and 
Joseph, for they were young men and strong. So they 
left the Women in the Road, and with them Mr Feeble- 
mind and Mr Ready-to-halt with his Crutches to be their 
Guard, until they came back; for in that place, tho' Giant 
Despair dwelt so near, they keeping in the Road, a little 
Child might lead them. 

So Mr Great-heart, old Honest and the four young 
men went to go up to Doubting Castle to look for Giant 
Despair, When they came at the Castle-gate, they 
knocked for entrance with an unusual Noise. At that the 
old Giant comes to the Gate, and Diffidence his Wife 
follows. Then said he. Who and what is he that is so 
hardy as after this manner to molest the Giant Despair? 
Mr Great-heart replied. It is I, Great-heart, one of the 
King of the Coelestial Country's Conductors of Pilgrims 
to their place, and I demand of thee that thou open thy 
Gates for my Entrance. Prepare thyself also to fight, for 
I am come to take away thy Head, and to demolish 
Doubting Castle. 

Now Giant Despair, because he was a Giant, thought Despair 
no man could overcome him; and again, thought he, overcome 
since heretofore I have made a Conquest of Angels, shall angels 
Great-heart make me afraid? So he harnessed himself 
and went out. He had a Cap of Steel upon his Head, a 
Breast-plate of Fire girded to him, and he came out in 
Iron Shoes, with a great Club in his Hand. Then these 
six men made up to him, and beset him behind and be- 
fore. Also when Diffidence the Giantess came up to help 
him, old Mr Honest cut her down at one Blow. Then 
they fought for their Lives, and Giant Despair was P^P*^ 
brought down to the Ground, but was very loth to die. ,0 die 
He struggled hard, and had, as they say, as many Lives as 





They have 
music and 
for joy 


a Cat, but Great-heart was his Death, for he left him not 
till he had severed his Head from his Shoulders. 

Then they fell to demolishing Doubting Castle, and 
that you know might with ease be done since Giant 
Despair was dead. They were seven days in destroying 
of that; and in it of Pilgrims they found one Mr Dispond- 
ency, almost starved to Death, and one Much-afraid his 
Daughter; these two they saved alive. But it would a 
made you a wondered to have seen the dead Bodies that 
lay 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 per- 
formed this exploit, they took Mr Dispondency and his 
Daughter Much-afraid into their protection, for they were 
honest people tho' they were Prisoners in Doubting 
Castle to that Tyrant Giant Despair. They therefore I 
say, took with them the Head of the Giant (for his Body 
they had buried under a heap of Stones) and down to 
the Road and to their Companions they came, and shewed 
them what they had done. Now when Feeble-mind and 
Ready-to-halt saw that it was the Head of Giant Despair 
indeed, they were very jocund and merry. Now Chris- 
tiana, if need was, could play upon the Vial, and her 
Daughter Mercy upon the Lute; so since they were so 
merry disposed, she played them a Lesson, and Ready- 
to-halt would dance. So he took Dispondency's Daughter 
named Much-afraid by the hand, and to dancing they 
went in the Road. True he could not dance without one 
Crutch in his hand, but I promise you he footed it well. 
Also the Girl was to be commended, for she answered the 
Musick handsomely. 

As for Mr Dispondency, the Musick was not much to 
him, he was for feeding rather than dancing, for that he 
was almost starved. So Christiana gave him some of her 
Bottle of Spirits for present relief, and then prepared him 
something to eat; and in little time the old Gentleman 
came to himself, and began to be finely revived. 


Now I saw in my Dream, when all these things were 
finished, Mr Great-heart took the Head of Giant Despair, 
and set it upon a Pole by the High-way side, right over 
against the Pillar that Christian erected for a Caution to 
Pilgrims that came after, to take heed of entering into his 

Though Doubting Castle be demolished. 
And the Giant Despair hath lost his Head, 
Sin can rebuild the Castle, make't remain. 
And make Despair the Giant live again. 

Then he writ under it upon a Marble-stone these verses 

This is the Head of him, whose Name only 

In former times did Pilgrims terrify. 

His Castle's down, and Diffidence his Wife 

Brave Master Great-heart has bereft of Life. 

Dispondency, his Daughter Much-afraid, 

Great-heart for them also the Man has play'd. 

Who hereof doubts, if he'll but cast his eye 

Up hither, may his scruples satisfy: 

This Head also, when doubting Cripples dance. 

Doth shew from Fears they have Deliverance. , 

When these men had thus bravely shewed themselves 
against Doubting Castle, and had slain Giant Despair, 
they went forward, and went on till they came to the 
Delectable Mountains, where Christian and Hopeful 
refreshed themselves with the varieties of the place. They 
also acquainted themselves with the Shepherds there, 
who welcomed them, as they had done Christian before, 
unto the Delectable Mountains. 

Now the Shepherds seeing so great a Train follow Mr 
Great-heart, (for with him they were well acquainted) 
they said unto him. Good Sir, you have got a goodly 
Company here, pray where did you find all these.' 

Then Mr Great-heart replied. 

First here is Christiana and her Train, 

Her Sons, and her Sons' Wives, who like the Wain, 


A monu- 
ment of 



to the 


A descrip- 
tion of 


Keep by the Pole, and do by Compass steer 
From Sin to Grace, else they had not been here; 
Next here's old Honest come on Pilgrimage, 
Ready-to-halt too, who I dare engage 
True-hearted is, and so is Feeble-mind, 
Who willing was not to be left behind; 
Dispondency, good man, is coming after. 
And so also is Much-afraid his Daughter. 
May we have entertainment here, or must 
We further go? Let's know whereon to trust. 

Then said the Shepherds, This is a comfortable Com- 
pany. You are welcome to us, for we have comfort for 
the feeble as for the strong. Our Prince has an eye to 
what is done to the least of these, therefore Infirmity must 
not be a block to our Entertainment. So they had them 
to the Palace door, and then said unto them, Come in Mr 
Feeble-mind, Come in Mr Ready-to-halt, Come in Mr 
Dispondency, and Mrs Much-afraid his Daughter. These, 
Mr Great-heart, said the Shepherds to the Guide, we call 
in by name, for that they are most subject to draw back, 
but as for you and the rest that are strong, we leave you to 
your wonted Liberty. Then said Mr Great-heart, This 
day I see that Grace doth shine in your Faces, and that 
you are my Lord's Shepherds indeed; for that you have 
not pushed these diseased neither with Side nor Shoulder, 
but have rather strewed their way into the Palace with 
Flowers, as you should. 

So the feeble and weak went in, and Mr Great-heart 
and the rest did follow. When they were also set down, 
the Shepherds said to those of the weakest sort, What is 
it that you would have? for, said they, all things must be 
managed here to the supporting of the weak, as well as 
the warning of the unruly. 

So they made them a Feast of things easy of Digestion, 
and that were pleasant to the Palate, and nourishing; the 
which when they had received, they went to the Rest, 
each one respectively unto his proper place. When Morn- 
ing was come, because the Mountains were high, and 


the day clear, and because it was the custom of the Shep- 
herds to shew to the Pilgrims before their departure, some 
Rarities; therefore after they were ready, and had 
refreshed themselves, the Shepherds took them out into 
the Fields, and shewed them first what they had shewed 
to Christian before. 
Then they had them to some new places. The first was Mount 


to Mount Marvel, where they looked, and beheld a man at 
a distance, that tumbled the Hills about with Words. 
Then they asked the Shepherds what that should mean ? 
So they told them, that that man was the Son of one 
Great-grace, of whom you read in the First Part of the ^""^ ^"^ 
Records of the Pilgrim's Progress. And he is set there to 
teach Pilgrims how to believe down or to tumble out of 
their ways what Difficulties they shall meet with, by 
Faith. Then said Mr Great-heart, I know him, he is a 
man above many. 

Then they had them to another place called Mount Mount 
Innocent, and there they saw a man cloathed all in White, 
and two men Prejudice and Ill-will continually casting 
Dirt upon him. Now behold the Dirt whatsoever they 
cast at him would in a little time fall off again, and his 
Garment would look as dear as if no Dirt had been 
cast thereat. 

Then said the Pilgrims, What means this? The Shep- 
herds answered, This man is named Godly-man, and this 
Garment is to shew the Innocency of his life. Now those 
that throw Dirt at him, are such as hate his well-doing, 
but as you see the Dirt will not stick upon his Cloaths, so 
it shall be with him that liveth truly innocently in the 
World. Whoever they be that would make such men 
dirty, they labour all in vain; for God, by that a little 
time is spent, will cause that their Innocence shall break 
forth as the Light, and their Righteousness as the Noon- 

Then they took them, and had them to Mount Charity, Mount 
where they shewed them a man that had a bundle of cloth ^^"^^ 


The work 
of one 
and one 

Mercy has 
a mind to 
see the 
hole in 
the hill 

First Part, 
p. 125 

and for 


lying before him, out of which he cut Coats and Gar- 
ments for the Poor that stood about him; yet his Bundle 
or Roll of Cloth was never the less. 

Then said they, What should this be? This is, said the 
Shepherds, to shew you, that he that has a heart to give 
of his Labour to the Poor, shall never want where-withal. 
He that watereth shall be watered himself. And the 
Cake that the Widow gave to the Prophet did not cause 
that she had ever the less in her Barrel. 

They had them also to a place where they saw one 
Fool and one Want-wit washing of an Ethiopian with in- 
tention to make him white, but the more they washed 
him the blacker he was. They then asked the Shepherds 
what that should mean. So they told them, saying. Thus 
shall it be with the vile person. All means used to get 
such an one a good name shall in conclusion tend but to 
make him more abominable. Thus it was with the 
Pharisees, and so shall it be with all Hypocrites. 

Then said Mercy the Wife of Matthew to Christiana 
her Mother, Mother, I would, if it might be, see the Hole 
in the Hill, or that commonly called the By-way to Hell. 
So her Mother brake her mind to the Shepherds. Then 
they went to the Door. It was in the side of a Hill, and 
they opened it, and Bid Mercy hearken awhile. So she 
hearkened, and heard one saying. Cursed be my Father 
for holding of my feet bacl{^ from the way of Peace and 
Life; and another said, O that I had been torn in pieces 
before I had, to save my Life, lost my Soul; and another 
said, // / were to live again, how would I deny myself, 
rather than come to this place. Then there was as if the 
very Earth had groaned and quaked under the feet of this 
young Woman for fear. So she looked white, and came 
trembling away, saying. Blessed be he and she that is 
delivered from this place. 

Now when the Shepherds had shewed them all these 
things, then they had them back to the Palace, and 
entertained them with what the house would afford. 


But Mercy being a young and breeding Woman, longed 
for something that she saw there, but was ashamed to 
ask. Her Mother-in-law then asked her what she ailed, 
for she looked as one not well. Then said Mercy, There 
is a looking-glass hangs up in the Dining-room, off of 
which 1 can not take my mind, if therefore I have it not, 
I think I shall miscarry. Then said her Mother, I will 
mention thy wants to the Shepherds, and they will not 
deny it thee. But she said, I am ashamed that these men 
should know that I longed. Nay my Daughter, said she, 
it is no Shame, but a Vertue, to long for such a thing as 
that. So Mercy said, Then Mother, if you please, ask the 
Shepherds if they are willing to sell it. 
Now the Glass was one of a thousand. It would 'J "ff , 

the Word 

present a man, one way, with his own l*eature exactly, of God 
and, turn it but another way, and it would shew one the 
very Face and Similitude of the Prince of Pilgrims him- 
self. Yea I have talked with them that can tell, and they 
have said that they have seen the very Crown of Thorns 
upon his Head, by looking in that Glass, they have 
therein also seen the Holes in his Hands, in his Feet, and 
his Side. Yea such an excellency is there in that Glass, 
that it will shew him to one where they have a mind to 
see him, whether living or dead, whether in Earth or 
Heaven, whether in a state of Humiliation or in his 
Exaltation, whether coming to Suffer or coming to Reign. 

Christiana therefore went to the Shepherds apart (now I^'"' P"*> 
the names of the Shepherds are Knowledge, Experience, 
Watchful, and Sincere) and said unto them. There is 
one of my Daughters, a breeding Woman, that I think 
doth long for something she hath seen in this house, and 
she thinks she shall miscarry if she should by you be 

Experience. Call her, call her, she shall assuredly have She doth 
what we can help her to. So they called her, and said to her longing 
her, Mercy, what is that thing thou wouldest have? Then 
she blushed, and said, The great Glass that hangs up in 


How the 
adorn the 

First Part, 
p. 126 

First Part, 
p. 135 

First Part, 
p. 128 


the Dining-room. So Sincere ran and fetched it, and with 
a joyful consent it was given her. Then she bowed her 
head, and gave thanks, and said, By this 1 know that I 
have obtained favour in your eyes. 

They also gave to the other young Women such things 
as they desired, and to their Husbands great Commenda- 
tions for that they joined with Mr Great-heart to the 
slaying of Giant Despair and the demolishing of Doubt- 
ing Castle. 

About Christiana's Neck the Shepherds put a Bracelet, 
and so they did about the Necks of her four Daughters, 
also they put Ear-rings in their Ears, and Jewels on their 

When they were minded to go hence, they let them 
go in peace, but gave not to them those certain Cautions 
which before were given to Christian and his Companion. 
The reason was for that these had Great-heart to be their 
Guide, who was one that was well acquainted with 
things, and so could give them their Cautions more sea- 
sonably, to wit, even then when the Danger was nigh the 

What Cautions Christian and his Companions had 
received of the Shepherds, they had also lost by that the 
time was come that they had need to put them in practice. 
Wherefore here was the advantage that this Company had 
over the other. 

From hence they went on singing, and they said. 

Behold, how fidy are the stages set 
For their Relief that Pilgrims are become; 
And how they us receive without one let, 
That make the other life our mark and home! 
What Novelties they have to us they give, 
That we, tho' Pilgrims, joyful lives may live; 
They do upon us too such things bestow, 
That shew we Pilgrims are where'er we go. 

When they were gone from the Shepherds, they 
quickly came to the place where Christian met with one 




Turn-away, that dwelt in the town of Apostacy. Where- 
fore of him Mr Great-heart their Guide did now put 
them in mind, saying, This is the place where Christian 
met with one Turn-away, who carried with him the H°"' °"* 
character of his Rebellion at his back. And this I have manajfed 
to say concerning this man, he would hearken to no ^^ 
counsel, but once a falling, persuasion could not stop 

When he came to the place where the Cross and the 
Sepulchre was, he did meet with one that did bid him 
look there; but he gnashed with his teeth, and stamped, 
and said he was resolved to go back to his own Town. 
Before he came to the Gate, he met with Evangelist, who 
offered to lay hands on him to turn him into the way 
again. But this Turn-away resisted him, and having done 
much despite unto him, he got away over the Wall, and 
so escaped his hand. 

Then they went on; and Just at the place where ^°^ 
Little-faith formerly was robbed, there stood a man with for-truth 
his Sword drawn, and his Face all bloody. Then said ^'^ w** 
Mr Great-heart, What art thou ? The man made answer, 
saying, I am one whose name is Valiant-for-truth. I am 
a Pilgrim, and am going to the Coelestial City. Now as 
I was in my way, there were three men did beset me and 
propounded unto me these three things: i. Whether I 
would become one of them ? 2. Or go back from whence 
I came? 3. Or die upon the place? To the first I an- 
swered, I had been a true man a long season, and there- 
fore it could not be expected that I now should cast in my 
Lot with Thieves. Then they demanded what I would 
say to the second. So I told them that the place from 
whence I came, had I not found Incommodity there, I had 
not forsaken it at all; but finding it altogether unsuitable 
to me, and very unprofitable for me, I forsook it for this 
way. Then they asked me what I said to the third. And 
I told them. My life cost more dear far than that I should 
lightly give it away. Besides, you have nothing to do 


How he be- 
haved him- 
self, and 
put them 
to flight 

at his 

The Word 
The Faid> 


thus to put things to my Choice, wherefore at your Peril 
be it if you meddle. Then these three, to wit Wild-head, 
Inconsiderate and Pragmatic/(^, drew upon me, and I also 
drew upon them. 

So we fell to it, one against three, for the space of above 
three hours. They have left upon me, as you see, some 
of the marks of their Valour, and have also carried away 
with them some of mine. They are but just now gone. 
I suppose they might, as the saying is, hear your Horse 
dash, and so they betook them to flight. 

Great-heart. But here was great odds, three against one. 

Valiant. 'Tis true, but little or more are nothing to 
him that has the Truth on his side. Tho' an Host encamp 
against me, said one, my heart shall not fear; tho' War 
should rise against me, in this will I be confident, &c. 
Besides, saith he, I have read in some Records, that one 
man has fought an Army; and how many did Samson 
slay with the Jaw-bone of an Ass ? 

Great-heart. Then said the Guide, Why did you not 
cry out, that some might a come in for your succour ? 

Valiant. So I did, to my King, who I knew could hear, 
and afford invisible help, and that was sufficient for me. 

Great-heart. Then said Great-heart to Mr Valiant-for- 
truth. Thou hast worthily behaved thyself. Let me see 
thy Sword. So he shewed it him. When he had taken 
it in his hand, and looked thereon a while, he said, Ha, it 
is a right Jerusalem Blade. 

Valiant. It is so. Let a man have one of these Blades, 
with a Hand to wield it and Skill to use it, and he may 
venture upon an Angel with it. He need not fear its 
holding, if he can but tell how to lay on. Its edges will 
never blunt. It will cut flesh and bones and soul and 
spirit and all. 

Great-heart. But you fought a great while, I wonder 
you was not weary. 

Valiant. I fought till my Sword did cleave to my 
Hand; and when they were joined together, as if a Sword 



grew out of my Arm, and when the Blood ran through 
my Fingers, then I fought with most courage. 

Great-heart. Thou hast done well. Thou hast resisted 
unto Blood, striving against Sin. Thou shalt abide by us, 
come in and go out with us, for we are thy Companions. 

Then they took him and washed his Wounds, and gave 
him of what they had to refresh him, and so they went 
on together. Now as they went on, because Mr Great- 
heart was delighted in him (for he loved one greatly 
that he found to be a man of his hands) and because 
there were with his Company them that was feeble and 
weak, therefore he questioned with him about many 
things, as first, what Country-man he was? 

Valiant. I am of Darl{4and, for there I was born, and 
there my Father and Mother are still. 

Great-heart. Darl{-land, said the Guide, doth not that 
lie upon the same Coast with the City of Destruction? 

Valiant. Yes it doth. Now that which caused me to How Mr 
come on Pilgrimage was this; we had one Mr Tell-true came to 
came into our parts, and he told it about what Christian k.° °" 

had done, that went from the City of Destruction, 
namely, how he had forsaken his Wife and Children, and 
had betaken himself to a Pilgrim's life. It was also con- 
fidently reported how he had killed a Serpent that did 
come out to resist him in his Journey, and how he got 
through to whither he intended. It was also told what 
Welcome he had at all his Lxjrd's Lodgings, especially 
when he came to the Gates of the Ccelestial City, for 
there, said the man, he was received with sound of 
Trumpet by a company of Shining Ones. He told it 
also, how all the Bells in the City did ring for joy at his 
reception, and what Golden Garments he was cloathed 
with, with many other things that now I shall forbear to 
relate. In a word, that man so told the story of Christian 
and his Travels, that my heart fell into a burning haste to 
be gone after him, nor could Father or Mother stay me: so 
I got from them, and am come thus far on my way. 



He begins 




He is much 
to see 


Great-heart. You came in at the Gate, did you not? 

Valiant. Yes, yes, for the same man also told us that 
all would be nothing, if we did not begin to enter this 
way at the Gate. 

Great-heart. Look you, said the Guide to Christiana, 
the Pilgrimage of your Husband, and what he has gotten 
thereby, is spread abroad far and near. 

Valiant. Why, is this Christian's wife? 

Great-heart. Yes, that it is, and these are also her four 

Valiant. What, and going on Pilgrimage too? 

Great-heart. Yes verily they are following after. 

Valiant. It glads me at heart. Good man, how joyful 
will he be when he shall see them that would not go with 
him, yet to enter after him in at the Gates into the City. 

Great-heart. Without doubt it will be a comfort to 
him; for next to the joy of seeing himself there, it will 
be a joy to meet there his Wife and his Children. 

Valiant. But now you are upon that, pray let me hear 
your opinion about it. Some make a question, Whether 
we shall know one another when we are there? 

Great-heart. Do they think they shall know themselves 
then, or that they shall rejoice to see themselves in that 
Bliss? and if they think they shall know and do these, 
why not know others, and rejoice in their Welfare also? 

Again, since Relations are our second self, though that 
state will be dissolved there, yet why may it not be ration- 
ally concluded that we shall be more glad to see them 
there than to see they are wanting? 

Valiant. Well, I perceive whereabouts you are as to 
this. Have you any more things to ask me about my 
beginning to come on Pilgrimage? 

Great-heart. Yes. Was your Father and Mother willing 
that you should become a Pilgrim? 

Valiant. Oh no. They used all means imaginable to 
persuade me to stay at home. 

Great-heart. What could they against it? 


Valiant. They said it was an idle life, and if I myself 
were not inclined to Sloth and Laziness, I would never 
countenance a Pilgrim's condition. 

Great-heart. And what did they say else? 

Valiant. Why, they told me that it was a dangerous 
way; yea, the most dangerous way in the World, said 
they, is that which the Pilgrims go. 

Great-heart. Did they shew wherein this way is so 

Valiant. Yes, and that in many particulars. 

Great-heart. Name some of them. 

Valiant. They told me of the Slough of Dispond, 
where Christian was well nigh smothered. They told me 
that there were Archers standing ready in Beelzebub- 
castle to shoot them that should knock at the Wicket-gate 
for entrance. They told me also of the Wood and dark 
Mountains, of the Hill Difficulty, of the Lions, and also 
of the three Giants, Bloody-man, Maul and Slay-good. 
They said moreover that there was a foul Fiend haunted 
the Valley of Humiliation, and that Christian was by him 
almost bereft of Life. Besides, say they, you must go 
over the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where the Hob- 
goblins are, where the Light is Darkness, where the way 
is full of Snares, Pits, Traps, and Gins. They told me 
also of Giant Despair, of Doubting Casde and of the 
ruin that the Pilgrims met with there. Further, they said 
I must go over the Inchanted Ground, which was dan- 
gerous. And that after all this, I should find a River, over 
which I should find no Bridge, and that that River 
did lie betwixt me and the Ccelestial Country. 

Great-heart. And was this all ? 

Valiant. No. They also told me that this way was full 
of Deceivers, and of persons that laid await there, to turn 
good men out of the Path. 

Great-heart. But how did they make that out? 

Valiant. They told me that Mr Worldly Wiseman did 
there lie in wait to deceive. They also said that there was 


The great 
blocks that 
by his 
were laid 
in his way 

The first 



Formality and Hypocrisy continually on the road. They 
said also that By-ends, Talkative or Demas would go 
near to gather me up, that the Flatterer would catch me 
in his Net, or that with green-headed Ignorance I would 
presume to go on to the Gate, from whence he always was 
sent back to the Hole that was in the side of the Hill, and 
made to go the By-way to Hell. 

Great-heart. I promise you this was enough to discour- 
age, but did they make an end here? 
The third Valiant. No, stay. They told me also of many that had 

tried that way of old, and that had gone a great way 
therein, to see if they could find something of the Glory 
there that so many had so much talked of from time to 
time; and how they came back again, and befooled them- 
selves for setting a foot out of doors in that Path, to the 
satisfaction of all the Country. And they named several 
that did so, as Obstinate and Pliable, Mistrust and Tim- 
orous, Turn-away and old Atheist, with several more, 
who, they said, had some of them gone far to see if they 
could find, but not one of them found so much advantage 
by going as amounted to the weight of a Feather. 

Great-heart. Said they anything more to discourage 
The fourth Valiant. Yes. They told me of one Mr Fearing who 
was a Pilgrim, and how he found this way so solitary 
that he never had comfortable hour therein. Also that 
Mr Dispondency had like to have been starved therein; 
yea, and also, which I had almost forgot, that Christian 
himself, about whom there has been such a noise, after 
all his ventures for a Ccelestial Crown, was certainly 
drowned in the black River, and never went foot further, 
however it was smothered up. 

Great-heart. And did none of these things discourage 

Valiant. No, they seemed but as so many nothings to 

Great-heart. How came that about ? 


Valiant. Why I still believed what Mr Tell-true had How he 

said, and that carried me beyond them all. these 

Great-heart. Then this was your victory, even your stumblinjj- 

, > UlOCItS 


Valiant. It was so; I believed, and therefore came out, 
got into the Way, fought all that set themselves against 
me, and by believing am come to this place. 

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 avow'd intent 
To be a Pilgrim. 

Who so 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 were got to the Inchanted Ground, J^""' P*^ 

where the air naturally tended to make one drowsy, 
and that place was all grown over with Briars and 
Thorns, excepting here and there where was an Inchanted 
Arbor, upon which if a man sits, or in which if a man 
sleeps, 'tis a question, say some, whether ever he shall 
rise or wake again in this world. Over this Forest there- 

p. 138 


fore they went, both one with another, and Mr Great- 
heart went before for that he was the Guide, and Mr 
V aliant-jor-trtith he came behind, being there a Guard 
for fear lest pcradventure some Fiend or Dragon or Giant 
or Thief should fall upon their Rear, and so do mischief. 
They went on here each man with his Sword drawn in 
his hand, for they knew it was a dangerous place. Also 
they cheered up one another as well as they could; Feeble- 
mind, Mr Great-heart commanded should come up after 
him, and Mr Dispondency was under the eye of Mr 

Now they had not gone far, but a great Mist and a 
Darkness fell upon them all, so that they could scarce for 
a great while see the one the other. Wherefore they were 
forced for some time to feel for one another by Words, 
for they walked not by Sight. 

But any one must think that here was but sorry going 
for the best of them all, but how much worse for the 
Women and Children, who both of jeet and heart were 
but tender. Yet so it was, that through the encouraging 
words of him that led in the front, and of him that 
brought them up behind, they made a pretty good shift 
to wag along. 

The way also was here very wearisome through Dirt 

and Slabbiness. Nor was there on all this ground so 

much as one Inn or Victualling-house therein to refresh 

the feebler sort. Here therefore was grunting and puffing 

and sighing. While one tumbleth over a Bush, another 

sticks fast in the Dirt; and the Children, some of them, 

lost their Shoes in the Mire. While one cries out, I am 

down; and another, Ho, where are you? and a third. The 

Bushes have got such fast hold on me, I think I cannot 

get away from them. 

An arbor Then they come at an Arbor, warm, and promising 

Inchantcd much refreshing to the Pilgrims; for it was finely wrought 

Ground above head, beautified with Greens, furnished with 

Benches and Settles. It also had in it a soft Couch where- 

pilgrim's progress 303 

on the weary might lean. This you must think, all 
things considered, was tempting, for the Pilgrims already 
began to be foiled with the badness of the way, but there 
was not one of them that made so much as a motion to 
stop there. Yea, for ought I could perceive, they con- 
tinually gave so good heed to the advice of their Guide, 
and he did so faithfully tell them of Dangers, and of the 
nature of Dangers, when they were at them, that usually 
when they were nearest to them they did most pluck up 
their Spirits, and hearten one another to deny the Flesh. 
This Arbor was called the Slothjul's Friend, on purpose The name 
to allure, if it might be, some of the Pilgrims there to take jrbo, 
up their Rest when weary. 

I saw then in my Dream, that they went on in this their J^ "»>' 
solitary ground, till they came to a place at which a man to find 
is apt to lose his way. Now tho' when it was light, their 
Guide could well enough tell how to miss those ways that 
led wrong, yet in the darl^ he was put to a stand; but he 
had in his Pocket a Map of all ways leading to or from J^' (f""** 
the Ccelestial City; wherefore he struck a Light (for he of jn ^ayt 
never goes also without his Tinder-box) and takes a 'ending to 
view of his Book or Map, which bids him be careful in the city 
that place to turn to the right-hand way. And had he not 
here been careful to look in his Map, they had all in 
probability been smothered in the Mud, for just a little 
before them, and that at the end of the cleanest way too, 
was a Pit, none knows how deep, full of nothing but 
Mud, there made on purpose to destroy the Pilgrims in. 

Then thought I with myself, who that goeth on Pil- <^<^'' 
grimage but would have one of these Maps about him, 
that he may look when he is at a stand, which is the way 
he must take? 

They went on then in this Inchanted Ground till they ^ "^' 
came to where there was another Arbor, and it was built asleep 
by the High-way side. And in that Arbor there lay two therein 
men whose names were Heedless and Too-bold. These 
two went thus far on Pilgrimage, but here being wearied 


The pil- 
grims try 
to wake 

Their en- 
deavor is 


with their Journey, they sat down to rest themselves, and 
so fell asleep. When the Pilgrims saw them, they stood 
still, and shook their heads, for they knew that the sleepers 
were in a pitiful case. Then they consulted what to do, 
whether to go on and leave them in their sleep, or to step 
to them and try to awake them. So they concluded to go 
to them and awake them, that is, if they could; but with 
this caution, namely, to take heed that themselves did 
not sit down nor imbrace the offered benefit of that 

So they went in and spake to the men, and called each 
by his name, (for the Guide it seems did know them) 
but there was no voice nor answer. Then the Guide did 
shake them, and do what he could to disturb them. Then 
said one of them, / will pay you when I ta/^e my Many. 
At which the Guide shook his Head. / will fight so long 
as I can hold my Sword in my hand, said the other. At 
that one of the Children laughed. 

Then said Christiana, What is the meaning of this? 
The Guide said. They talf^ in their Sleep. If you strike 
them, beat them, or whatever else you do to them, they 
will answer you after this fashion; or as one of them said 
in old time, when the Waves of the Sea did beat upon 
him, and he slept as one upon the Mast of a Ship, When 
I awal{e I will see\ it again. You know when men talk 
in their Sleeps they say anything, but their words are not 
governed either by Faith or Reason. There is an inco- 
herency in their words now, as there was before betwixt 
their going on Pilgrimage and sitting down here. This 
then is the mischief on't, when heedless ones go on Pil- 
grimage 'tis twenty to one but they are served thus. For 
this Inchanted Ground is one of the last Refuges that the 
Enemy to Pilgrims has; wherefore it is, as you see, placed 
almost at the end of the Way, and so it standeth against 
us with the more advantage. For when, thinks the 
Enemy, will these Fools be so desirous to sit down, as 
when they are weary? and when so like to be weary, as 



when almost at their Journey's end ? therefore it is I say, 
that the Inchanted Ground is placed so nigh to the Land 
Beulah, and so near the end of their Race. Wherefore let 
Pilgrims look to themselves, lest it happen to them as it 
has done to these, that, as you see, are fallen asleep, and 
none can wake them. 

Then the Pilgrims desired with trembling to go for- TTie light 
ward; only they prayed their Guide to strike a Light, that word 
they might go the rest of their way by the help of the 
Light of a Lanthorn. So he struck a Light, and they went 
by the help of that through the rest of this way, tho' the 
Darkness was very great. 

But the Children began to be sorely weary, and they '^^, 
cried out unto him that loveth Pilgrims to make their cry for 
way more comfortable. So by that they had gone a little weariness 
further, a Wind arose that drove away the Fog, so the 
Air became more clear. 

Yet they were not off (by much) of the Inchanted 
Ground, only now they could see one another better, and 
the way wherein they should walk. 

Now when they were almost at the end of this ground. Stand-fast 
they perceived that a little before them was a solemn knees in 
Noise, as of one that was much concerned. So they went '"j* '"■ 
on and looked before them ; and behold they saw, as they ground 
thought, a man upon his Knees, with Hands and Eyes lift 
up, and speaking, as they thought, earnestly to one that 
was above. They drew nigh, but could not tell what he 
said; so they went softly till he had done. When he had 
done, he got up and began to run towards the Coelestial 
City. Then Mr Great-heart called after him, saying, Soho 
Friend, let us have your Company, if you go, as I suppose 
you do, to the Coelestial City. So the man stopped, and 
they came up to him. But so soon as Mr Honest saw 
him, he said, I know this man. Then said Mr Valiant- 
jor-truth, Prithee, who is it } 'Tis one, said he, who comes The 
from whereabouts I dwelt, his name is Stand-fast, he is sund-fast 
certainly a right good Pilgrim. 


Talk be- 
tween him 
and Mr 

him at 


What it 
was that 
him upon 
his knees 

Bubble, or 
this vain 


So they came up one to another; and presently Stand- 
fast said to old Honest, Ho Father Honest, are you there? 
Ay, said he, that I am, as sure as you are there. Right 
glad am I, said Mr Stand-fast, that I have found you on 
this Road. And as glad am I, said the other, that I espied 
you upon your Knees. Then Mr Stand-fast blushed, and 
said, But why, did you see me.' Yes, that I did, quoth 
the other, and with 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 up)on the Road, and therefore should have 
his Company by and by. If you thought not amiss [said 
Stand-fast^ how happy am I, but if I be not as I should, 
I alone must bear it. That is true, said the other, but your 
fear doth further confirm me that things are right betwixt 
the Prince of Pilgrims and your Soul, for he saith, Blessed 
is the man that feareth always. 

Valiant. Well but Brother, I pray thee tell us what 
was it that was the cause of thy being upon thy Knees 
even now ? Was it for that some special mercy laid obli- 
gations upon thee, or how? 

Stand-fast. Why we are, as you see, upon the In- 
chanted Ground, and as I was coming along, I was 
musing with myself of what a dangerous Road the Road 
in this place was, and how many that had come even thus 
far on Pilgrimage had here been stopt and been destroyed. 
I thought also of the manner of the Death with which 
this place destroyeth men. Those that die here, die of no 
violent Distemper. The Death which such die is not 
grievous to them, for he that goeth away in a sleep begins 
that Journey with Desire and Pleasure; yea, such 
acquiesce in the will of that Disease. 

Hon. Then Mr Honest interrupting of him said. Did 
you see the two men asleep in the Arbor? 

Stand-fast. Ay, ay, I saw Heedless and Too-bold there, 
and for ought I know, there they will lie till they rot. 
But let me go on in my Tale. As I was thus musing, as 


I said, there was one in very pleasant attire, but old, who 
presented herself unto me, and offered me three things, 
to wit, her Body, her Purse and her Bed. Now the truth 
is, I was both a-weary and sleepy, I am also as poor as a 
Howlet, and that perhaps the Witch knew. Well I re- 
pulsed her once and twice, but she put by my repulses, 
and smiled. Then I began to be angry, but she mattered 
that nothing at all. Then she made offers again, and said. 
If I would be ruled by her, she would make me great and 
happy, for said she, 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 set me 
further from her, but she still followed me with Intice- 
ments. Then I betook me, as you see, to my Knees, and 
with hands lift up and cries, I pray'd to him that had 
said he would help. So just as you came up, the Gentle- 
woman went her way. Then I continued to give thanks 
for this my great Deliverance, for I verily believe she 
intended no good, but rather sought to make stop of me 
in my Journey. 

Hon. Without doubt her Designs were bad. But stay, 
now you talk of her, methinks I either have seen her, 
or have read some story of her. 

Stand-fast. Perhaps you have done both. 

Hon. Madam Bubble, is she not a tall comely Dame, 
something of a swarthy Complexion? 

Stand-fast. Right, you hit it, she is just such an one. 

Hon. Doth she not speak very smoothly, and give you 
a Smile at the end of a Sentence ? 

Stand-fast. You fall right upon it again, for these are 
her very Actions. 

Hon. Doth she not wear a great Purse by her side, and 
is not her Hand often in it fingering her Mony, as if that 
was her heart's delight? 

Stand-fast. 'Tis just so; had she stood by all this while, 
you could not more amply have set her forth before me, 
nor have better described her Features. 



Hon. Then he that drew her picture was a good Lim- 
ner, and he that wrote of her said true. 
The World Great-heart. This woman is a Witch, and it is by vertue 
of her Sorceries that this ground is inchanted. Whoever 
doth lay their Head down in her Lap, had as good lay it 
down upon that Block over which the Ax doth hang; 
and whoever lay their Eyes upon her Beauty, are counted 
the Enemies of God. This is she that maintaineth in their 
splendor all those that are the Enemies of Pilgrims. Yea, 
this is she that hath bought off many a man from a Pil- 
grim's Life. She is a great Gossiper, she is always, both 
she and her Daughters, at one Pilgrim's heels or another, 
now commending and then preferring the excellencies of 
this Life. She is a bold and impudent Slut, she will talk 
with any man. She always laugheth poor Pilgrims to 
scorn, but highly commends the rich. If there be one 
cunning to get Mony in a place, she will speak well of 
him from house to house. She loveth Banqueting and 
Feasting mainly well, she is always at one full Table or 
another. She has given it out in some places that she is 
a Goddess, and therefore some do worship her. She has 
her times and open places of Cheating, and she will say 
and avow it that none can shew a good comparable to 
hers. She promiseth to dwell with Children's Children, 
if they will but love and make much of her. She will cast 
out of her Purse Gold like Dust, in some places, and to 
some persons. She loves to be sought after, spoken well of, 
and to lie in the Bosoms of Men. She is never weary of 
commending her Commodities, and she loves them most 
that think best of her. She will promise to some Crowns 
and Kingdoms if they will but take her advice, yet many 
has she brought to the Halter, and ten thousand times 
more to Hell. 

Stand-fast. Oh, said Stand-fast, what a mercy is it 
that I did resist her, for whither might she a drawn me? 

Great-heart. Whither, nay, none but God knows 
whither. But in general to be sure, she would a drawn 


thee into many foolish and hurtful LMSts, u/hich drown 
men in Destruction and Perdition. 

'Twas she that set Absalom against his Father, and 
feroboam against his Master. 'Twas she that persuaded 
fudas to sell his Lord, and that prevailed with Demas 
to forsake the godly Pilgrim's Life. None can tell of the 
Mischief that she doth. She makes variance betwixt 
Rulers and Subjects, betwixt Parents and Children, 'twixt 
Neighbor and Neighbor, 'twixt a Man and his Wife, 
'twixt a Man and Himself, 'twixt the Flesh and the 

Wherefore good Master Stand-fast, be as your name 
is, and when you have done all, stand. 

At this Discourse there was among the Pilgrims a 
mixture of Joy and Trembling, but at length they brake 
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 of the Ditch shy are, yet can 
Lie tumbling on the Mire; 
Some tho' they shun the Frying-(>an, 
Do leap into the Fire. 

After this I beheld until they were come unto the Fi"t Part, 

Land of Beulah, where the Sun shineth Night and Day. 
Here, because they was weary, they betook themselves 
a while to rest. And because this Country was common 
for Pilgrims, and because the Orchards and Vineyards 
that were here belonged to the King of the Coelestial 
Country, therefore they were licensed to make bold with 
any of his things. But a little while soon refreshed them 
here; for the Bells did so ring, and the Trumpets contin- 
ually sound so melodiously, that they could not sleep; and 
yet they received as much refreshing as if they had slept 
their sleep never so soundly. Here also all the noise of 
them that walked the Streets, was, More Pilgrims are 

p. 156 


bitter to 
the flesh, 
but sweet 
to the soul 

Death has 
its ebbings 
and flow- 
ings like 
the tide 

A mes- 
jenfter of 
sent to 


come to Town. And another would answer, saying, And 
so many went over the Water, and were let in at the Gol- 
den Gates to-day. They would cry again, There is now a 
Legion of Shining Ones just come to Town, by which we 
know that there are more Pilgrims upon the road, for here 
they come to wait for them, and to comfort them after all 
their Sorrow. Then the Pilgrims got up and walked to 
and fro; but how were their Ears now filled with Heav- 
enly Noises, and their eyes delighted with Coclestial Vi- 
sions! In this Land they heard nothing, saw nothing, felt 
nothing, smelt nothing, tasted nothing, that was offensive 
to their Stomach or Mind; only when they tasted of the 
Water of the River over which they were to go, they 
thought that tasted a little bitterish to the Palate, but it 
proved sweeter when 'twas down. 

In this place there was a Record kept of the names of 
them that had been Pilgrims of old, and a History of all 
the famous Acts that they had done. It was here also 
much discoursed how the River to some had had its 
ftowings, and what ebbings it has had while others have 
gone over. It has been in a manner 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 Nosegays for the Pilgrims, 
and bring them to them with much affection. Here also 
grew Camp/lire with Spikenard and Saffron Calamus 
and Cinnamon, with all its Trees of Frankincense Myrrh 
and Aloes, with all chief Spices. With these the Pilgrim's 
Chambers were perfumed while they stayed here, and 
with these were their Bodies anointed, to prepare them to 
go over the River when the time appointed was come. 

Now while they lay here and waited for the good hour, 
there was a noise in the Town that there was a Post come 
from the Ccelestial City, with matter of great importance 
to one Christiana the Wife of Christian the Pilgrim. So 
enquiry was made for her, and the house was found out 
where she was. So the Post presented her with a Letter, 


the contents whereof was, Hail, good Woman, I bring His 
thee Tidings that the Master calleth for thee, and expect- 
eth that thou shouldest stand in his presence in Cloaths 
of Immortality, within this ten days. 

When he had read this Letter to her, he gave her there- How wel- 
with a sure token that he was a true Messenger, and was j^j,!, ,„ 
come to bid her make haste to be gone. The token was jj'*'" 'hat 
an Arrotv with a point sharpened with Love, let easily j^g ,<, jo 
into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually but to die 
with her, that at the time appointed she must be gone. 

When Christiana saw that her time was come, and that Her speech 
she was the first of this Company that was to go over, she gaiAe 
called for Mr Great-heart her Guide, and told him how 
matters were. So he told her he was heartily glad of the 
News, and could have been glad had the Post come for 
him. Then she bid that he should give advice how all 
things should be prepared for her Journey. So he told her, 
saying, Thus and thus it must be, and we that survive will 
accompany you to the River-side. 

Then she called for her Children, and gave them her To her 
Blessing, and told them that she yet read with comfort 
the Mark that was set in their Foreheads, and was glad 
to see them with her there, and that they had kept their 
Garments so white. Lastly, she bequeathed to the Poor 
that litde she had, and commanded her Sons and her 
Daughters to be ready against the Messenger should come 
for them. 

When she had spoken these words to her Guide and to '1'° Mr 
her Children, she called for Mr Valiant-for-truth. and 
said unto him. Sir, you have in all places shewed yourself 
true-hearted, be faithful unto Death, and my King will 
give you a Crown of Life. I would also entreat you to 
have an eye to my Children, and if at any time you see 
them faint, speak comfortably to them. For my Daugh- 
ters, my Sons' Wives, they have been faithful, and a ful- 
filUng of the Promise upxan them will be their end. But '^° Mr. 
she gave Mr Stand-fast a Ring. 


To old 

To Mr 


To Du- 
and his 

To Feeble- 

Her last 
day, and 
manner of 


Then she called for old Mr Honest, and said of him, 
Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no Guile. Then 
said he, I wish you a fair day when you set out for Mount 
Zion, and shall be glad to see that you go over the River 
dry-shod. But she answered. Come wet, come dry, I long 
to be gone, for however the Weather is in my Journey, I 
shall have time enough when I come there to sit down 
and rest me and dry me. 

Then came in that good man Mr Ready-to-halt to see 
her. So she said to him. Thy Travel hither has been with 
difficulty, but that will make thy Rest the sweeter. But 
watch and be ready, for at an hour when you think not, 
the Messenger may come. 

After him came in Mr Dispondency and his Daughter 
Much-afraid, to whom she said, You ought with thank- 
fulness for ever to remember your Deliverance from 
the hands of Giant Despair and out of Doubting Castle. 
The effect of that Mercy is, that you are brought with 
safety hither. Be ye watchful and cast away Fear, be 
sober and hope to the end. 

Then she said to Mr Feeble-mind, Thou wast delivered 
from the mouth of Giant Slay-good, that thou mightest 
live in the Light of the Living for ever, and see thy 
King with comfort. Only I advise thee to repent thee 
of thine aptness to fear and doubt of his goodness be- 
fore he sends for thee, lest thou shouldest when he comes, 
be forced to stand before him for that fault with 

Now the day drew on that Christiana must be gone. 
So the Road was full of People to see her take her Journey. 
But behold all the Banks beyond the River were full of 
Horses and Chariots, which were come down from 
above to accompany her to the City Gate. So she came 
forth and entered the River, with a beckon of Farewell to 
those that followed her to the River-side. The last word 
she was heard to say here was, / come Lord, to be with 
thee and bless thee. 


So her Children and Friends returned to their place, 
for that those that waited for Christiana had carried her 
out of their sight. So she went and called, and entered 
in at the Gate with all the Ceremonies of Joy that her 
Husband Christian had done before her. 

At her departure her Children wept, but Mr Great- 
heart and Mr Valiant played upon the well-tuned Cymbal 
and Harp for Joy. So all departed to their respective 

In process of time there came a Post to the Town again, ^'^l.' 
and his business was with Mr Ready-to-halt. So he en- ,ummoned 
quired him out, and said to him, 1 am come to thee in 
the name of him whom thou hast loved and followed, 
tho' upon Crutches; and my Message is to tell thee that 
he expects thee at his Table to sup with him in his 
Kingdom the next day after Easter, wherefore prepare 
thyself for this Journey. 

Then he also gave him a Token that he was a true 
Messenger, saying, / have broken thy golden botvl, and 
loosed thy silver cord. 

After this Mr Ready-to-halt called for his fellow Pil- Promisef 
grims, and told them, saying, I am sent for, and God shall 
surely visit you also. So he desired Mr Valiant to make Hi* will 
his Will. And because he had nothing to bequeath to 
them that should survive him but his Crutches and his 
good Wishes, therefore thus he said. These Crutches I 
bequeath to my Son that shall tread in my steps, with a 
hundred warm wishes that he may prove better than I 
have done. 

Then he thanked Mr Great-heart for his Conduct and His last 
Kindness, and so addressed himself to his Journey. When 
he came at the Brink of the River he said, 'Now I shall 
have no more need of these Crutches, since yonder are 
Chariots and Horses for me to ride on. The last words 
he was heard to say was, Welcome Life. So he went his 



He makes 
no will 

HU last 

Mr. Dis- 




goes too 

His will 


After this Mr Feeble-mind had Tidings brought him 
that the Post sounded his Horn at his Chamber-door. 
Then he came in and told him, saying, I am come to tell 
thee that thy Master has need of thee, and that in very 
little time thou must behold his Face in Brightness. And 
take this as a Token of the Truth of my Message, Those 
that loo^ out at the Windows shall be darl^ened. 

Then Mr Feeble-mind called for his Friends, and told 
them what Errand had been brought unto him, and what 
Token he had received of the Truth of the Message. 
Then he said, Since I have nothing to bequeath to any, 
to what purpose should I make a Will? As for my \eeble 
mind, that I will leave behind me, for that I have no need 
of that in the place whither I go. Nor is it worth bestow- 
ing upon the poorest Pilgrim; wherefore when I am gone, 
I desire that you, Mr Valiant, would bury it in a Dunghill. 
This done, and the day being come in which he was to 
depart, he entered the River as the rest. His last words 
were, Hold out Faith and Patience. So he went over to 
the other side. 

When days had many of them passed away, Mr. Dis- 
pondency was sent for. For a Post was come, and brought 
this Message to him. Trembling man, these are to sum- 
man thee to be ready with thy King by the next Lard's 
day, to shout for Joy for thy Deliverance from all thy 

And said the Messenger, That my Message is true take 
this for a Proof; so he gave him The Grasshopper to be 
a Burden unto him. Now Mr Dispondency's Daughter 
whose name was Much-afraid said when she heard what 
was done, that she would go with her Father. Then Mr 
Dispondency said to his Friends, Myself and my Daugh- 
ter, you know what we have been, and how trouble- 
somely we have behaved ourselves in every Company. 
My Will and my Daughter's is, that our Disponds and 
slavish Fears be by no man ever received from the day 
of our Departure for ever, for I know that after my Death 


they will offer themselves to others. For to be plain with 
you, they are Ghosts, the which we entertained when we 
first began to be Pilgrims, and could never shake them 
off after; and they will walk about and seek entertain- 
ment of the Pilgrims, but for our sakes shut ye the doors 
upon them. 

When the time was come for them to depart, they 
went to the Brink of the River. The last words of Mr 
Dispondency were. Farewell Night, welcome Day. His 
Daughter went through the River singing, but none 
could understand what she said. 


His last 

Then it came to pass a while after, that there was a 
Post in the town that enquired for Mr Honest. So he 
came to his house where he was, and delivered to his 
hand these lines. Thou art commanded to be ready against 
this day seven-night to present thyself before thy Lord 
at his Father's house. And for a Token that my Message 
is true, All thy Daughters of Musicl{ shall be brought low. 
Then Mr Honest called for his Friends, and said unto 
them, I die, but shall make no Will. As for my Honesty, 
it shall go with me; let him that comes after be told of 
this. When the day that he was to be gone was come, 
he addressed himself to go over the River. Now the River 
at that time overflowed the Banks in some places, but Mr 
Honest in his lifetime had spoken to one Good-conscience 
to meet him there, the which he also did, and lent him 
his hand, and so helped him over. The last words of Mr 
Honest were, Grace reigns. So he left the World. 



He makes 
no will 

helps Mr 
over the 

After this it was noised abroad that Mr Valiant-for- Mr Valiant 
truth was taken with a Summons by the same Post as the 
other, and had this for a Token that the Summons was 
true. That his Pitcher was bro/(en at the Fountain. When 
he understood it, he called for his Friends, and told them 
of it. Then said he, I am going to my Fathers, and tho' 
with great difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not 


His will 

His last 

Mr Stand- 
fast is 

He calls 
for Mr 

His speech 
to him 

His errand 
to his 



repent me of all the Trouble I have been at to arrive 
where I am. My Sword I give to him that shall succeed 
me in my Pilgrimage, and my Courage and Skill to him 
that can get it. My Marks and Scars 1 carry with me, to 
be a witness for me that I have fought his Battles who 
now will be my Rewarder. When the day that he must 
go hence was come, many accompanied him to the River- 
side, into which as he went he said, Death, where is thy 
Sting? And as he went down deeper he said. Grave, 
where is thy Victory? So he passed over, and all the 
Trumpets sounded for him on the other side. 

Then there came forth a Summons for Mr Stand-fast, 
(This Mr Stand-fast was he that the rest of the Pilgrims 
found upon his Knees in the Inchanted Ground) for the 
Post brought it him open in his hands. The contents 
whereof, were, that he must prepare for a Change of 
Life, for his Master was not willing that he should be so 
far from him any longer. At this Mr. Stand-fast was put 
into a muse. Nay, said the Messenger, you need not doubt 
of the truth of my Message, for here is a Token of the 
Truth thereof. Thy Wheel is brol{en at the Cistern. Then 
he called to him Mr Great-heart who was their Guide, 
and said, unto him. Sir, altho' it was not my hap to be 
much in your good Company in the days of my Pilgrim- 
age, yet since the time I knew you, you have been profit- 
able to me. When I came from home, I left behind me a 
Wife and five small Children, let me entreat you at your 
return, (for I know that you will go and return to your 
Master's house, in hopes that you may yet be a Conductor 
to more of the holy Pilgrims) that you send to my 
Family, and let them be acquainted with all that hath and 
shall happen unto me. Tell them moreover of my happy 
Arrival to this place, and of the present late blessed con- 
dition that I am in. Tell them also of Christian and 
Christiana his Wife, and how she and her Children came 


after her Husband. Tell them also of what a happy end 
she made, and whither she is gone. I have little or noth- 
ing to send to my Family, except it be Prayers and Tears 
for them; of which it will suffice if thou acquaint them, 
if peradventure they may prevail. 

When Mr. Stand-fast had thus set things in order, and 
the time being come for him to haste him away, he also 
went down to the River. Now there was a great Calm 
at that time in the River; wherefore Mr Stand-fast, when 
he was about half-way in, he stood awhile, and talked to 
his Companions that had waited upon him thither. And 
he said. 

This River has been a Terror to many, yea, the thoughts His last 
of it also have often frighted me. But now methinks I 
stand easy, my Foot is fixed upon that upon which the 
Feet of the Priests that bare the Ark of the Covenant 
stood, while Israel went over this Jordan. The Waters 
indeed are to the Palate bitter and to the Stomach cold, 
yet the thoughts of what I am going to and of the Con- 
duct that waits for me on the other side, doth lie as a 
glowing Coal at my Heart. 

I see myself now at the end of my Journey, my toilsome 
days are ended. I am going now to see that Head that 
was crowned with Thorns, and that Face that was spit 
upon for me. 

I have formerly lived by Hear-say and Faith, but now 
I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with him 
in whose Company I delight myself. 

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 coveted to set my Foot too. 

His Name has been to me as a Civit-box, yea, sweeter 
than all Perfumes. His Voice to me has been most sweet, 
and his Countenance I have more desired than they that 
have most desired the Light of the Sun. His Word I did 
use to gather for my Food, and for Antidotes against 

3i8 pilgrim's progress 

my Paintings. He has held me, and I have kept me from 
mine iniquities, yea, my Steps hath he strengthened in 
his Way. 

Now while he was thus in Discourse, his Countenance 
changed, his strong man bowed under him, and after 
he had said, Taf{e me, for I come unto thee, he ceased to 
be seen of them. 

But glorious it was to see how the open Region 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 that Chris- 
tiana brought with her, with their Wives and Children, 
I did not stay where I was till they were gone over. Also 
since I came away, I heard one say that they were yet 
alive, and so would be for the Increase of the Church in 
that place where they were for a time. 

Shall it be my Lot to go that way again, I may give 
those that desire it an account of what I here am silent 
about; mean-time I bid my Reader Adieu. 



Some say the Pilgrim's Progress is not mine. 

Insinuating as if I would shine 

In name and fame by the worth of another, 

Li/^e some made rich by robbing of their Brother. 

Or that so fond I am of being Sire, 

I'll father Bastards; or if need require, 

I'll tell a lye in print to get applause. 

I scorn it: John such dirt-heap never was. 

Since God converted him. Let this suffice 

To show why I my Pilgrim patronize. 

It came from mine own heart, so to my head. 
And thence into my fingers tric/^led; 
Then to my pen, from whence immediately 
On paper I did dribble it daintily. 

Manner and matter too was all mine own. 
Nor was it unto any mortal l^nown. 
Till I had done it. Nor did any then 
By boo^s, by wits, by tongues, or hand, or pen. 
Add five words to it, or write half a line 
Thereof: the whole and every whit is mine. 

Also, for this thine eye is now upon. 
The matter in this manner came from none 
But the same heart and head, fingers and pen. 
As did the other. Witness all good men; 
For none in all the world, without a lye. 
Can say that this is mine, excepting I. 
I write not this of any ostentation. 
Nor 'cause I see\ of men their commendation; 
I do it to t^eep them from such surmise. 
As tempt them will my name to scandalize. 
Witness my name, if anagram'd to thee. 
The letters ma\e, Nu hony in a B. 




IzAAK Walton was born on August 9, 1593, in Staffordshire, England. 
He came to London where he served his apprenticeship as an ironmonger, 
and later seems to have been in business on his own account. He was a 
loyal member of the Church of England, and was on terms of friendship 
with a number of distinguished divines, notably Dr. John Donne, who, 
when he was vicar of Saint Dunstan's, was a near neighbor of Walton's. 
In politics he sympathized warmly with the Royalist party, and it has 
been supposed that it was the triumph of the Parliament in the Civil War 
that led him in 1644 to retire from business, and, for a time, from London. 
Most of his old age was spent with his friend, George Morley, Bishop of 
Winchester, and with his daughter Anne, the wife of William Hawkins, 
a prebendary of Winchester. In the house of the latter he died in Decem- 
ber, 1683, and was buried in Winchester Cathedral. He was twice 

Walton's chief literary work, "The Compleat Angler, or the Contem- 
plative Man's Recreation," was published when he was sixty, and he 
induced his friend, Charles Cotton, to supplement it with a treatise on 
fly-fishing, which was incorporated with Walton's fifth edition in 1676. 
Whatever may be the value of this work as a practical guide, it remains 
the literary classic of the gentle art of angling, and is remarkable for its 
success in conveying in delightful prose the charm of English meadows 
and streams. 

"The Life of Dr. Donne" was written by Walton in 1640 as an intro- 
duction to a collection of Donne's sermons; and thirty years later was 
issued in a volume with lives of Sir Henry Wotton, Richard Hooker, and 
George Herbert. In 1678 he completed his biographical labors with a life 
of Robert Sanderson. These lives are in their way models of short biog- 
raphy. The charming personality of Walton himself, and the clarity and 
delicacy of a style of high artistic simplicity, set off a narrative in which 
facts are not allowed to obscure the outlines of a character drawn with 
loving admiration. Few bulky official lives succeed in giving the reader 
so vivid a picture of personality as these sketches from the hand of 
Izaak Walton. 


MASTER JOHN DONNE was born in London, in the year 
1573, of good and virtuous parents; and, though his own 
learning and other multiplied merits may justly appear 
sufficient to dignify both himself and his posterity, yet the reader 
may be pleased to know that his father was masculinely and lineally 
descended from a very ancient family in Wales, where many of his 
name now live, that deserve, and have great reputation in that 

By his mother he was descended of the family of the famous and 
learned Sir Thomas More, sometime Lord Chancellor of England: 
as also, from that worthy and laborious judge Rastall, who left 
posterity the vast statutes of the law of this nation most exactly 

He had his first breeding in his father's house, where a private 
tutor had the care of him, until the tenth year of his age; and, in 
his eleventh year, was sent to the University of Oxford; having at 
that time a good command both of the French and Latin tongue. 
This, and some other of his remarkable abilities, made one then 
give this censure of him: That this age had brought forth another 
Picus Mirandola; of whom story says that he was rather born than 
made wise by study. 

There he remained for some years in Hart Hall, having for the 
advancement of his studies, tutors of several sciences to attend and 
instruct him, till time made him capable, and his learning expressed 
in public exercises declared him worthy, to receive his first degree 
in the schools, which he forbore by advice from his friends, who, 
being for their religion of the Romish persuasion, were conscionably 
averse to some parts of the oath that is always tendered at those times, 
and not to be refused by those that expect the titulary honour of their 

About the fourteenth year of his age he was transplanted from 



Oxford to Cambridge, where, that he might receive nourishment 
from both soils, he stayed till his seventeenth year; all which time he 
was a most laborious student, often changing his studies, but endea- 
vouring to take no degree, for the reasons formerly mentioned. 

About the seventeenth year of his age he was removed to London, 
and then admitted into Lincoln's Inn, with an intent to study the 
law; where he gave great testimonies of his wit, his learning, and 
of his improvement in that profession; which never served him for 
other use than an ornament and self-satisfaction. 

His father died before his admission into this society, and, being a 
merchant, left him his portion in money. (It was /[3000.) His 
mother, and those to whose care he was committed, were watchful to 
improve his knowledge, and to that end appointed him tutors, both 
in the mathematics and in all the other liberal sciences, to attend 
him. But with these arts they were advised to instil into him particu- 
lar principles of the Romish Church, of which those tutors professed, 
though secretly, themselves to be members. 

They had almost obliged him to their faith; having for their ad- 
vantage, besides many opportunities, the example of his dear and 
pious parents, which was a most powerful persuasion, and did 
work much upon him, as he professeth in his Preface to his Pseudo- 
Martyr, a book of which the reader shall have some account in what 

He was now entered into the eighteenth year of his age, and at 
that time had betrothed himself to no religion that might give him 
any other denomination than a Christian. And reason and piety 
had both persuaded him that there could be no such sin as schism, 
if an adherence to some visible church were not necessary. 

About the nineteenth year of his age, he, being then unresolved 
what religion to adhere to, and considering how much it concerned 
his soul to choose the most orthodox, did therefore, — though his 
youth and health promised him a long life, — to rectify all scruples 
that might concern that, presently laid aside all study of the law, and 
of all other sciences that might give him a denomination; and began 
seriously to survey and consider the body of divinity, as it was then 
controverted betwixt the reformed and the Roman Church. And 
as God's blessed Spirit did then awaken him to the search, and in 


that industry did never forsake him, — they be his own words,' — so 
he calls the same Holy Spirit to witness this protestation; that in that 
disquisition and search he proceeded with humility and diffidence 
in himself, and by that which he took to be the safest way, namely, 
frequent prayers, and an indifferent affection to both parties; and 
indeed, truth had too much light about her to be hid from so sharp 
an inquirer; and he had too much ingenuity not to acknowledge 
he had found her. 

Being to undertake this search, he believed the Cardinal Bellarmine 
to be the best defender of the Roman cause, and therefore betook 
himself to the examination of his reasons. The cause was weighty, 
and wilful delays had been inexcusable both towards God and his 
own conscience: he therefore proceeded in this search with all 
moderate haste, and about the twentieth year of his age did show 
the then Dean of Gloucester — whose name my memory hath now 
lost — all the Cardinal's works marked with many weighty observa- 
tions under his own hand; which works were bequeathed by him, 
at his death, as a legacy to a most dear friend. 

About a year following he resolved to travel; and the Earl of Essex 
going first to Cales, and after the island voyages, the first anno 1596, 
the second 1597, he took the advantage of those opportunities, 
waited upon his lordship, and was an eye-witness of those happy and 
unhappy employments. 

But he returned not back into England till he had stayed some 
years, first in Italy, and then in Spain, where he made many useful 
observations of those countries, their laws and manner of govern- 
ment, and returned perfect in their languages. 

The time that he spent in Spain was, at his first going into Italy, 
designed for travelling to the Holy Land, and for viewing Jerusalem 
and the sepulchre of our Saviour. But at his being in the farthest 
parts of Italy, the disappointment of company, or of a safe convoy, 
or the uncertainty of returns of money into those remote parts, denied 
him that happiness, which he did often occasionally mention with a 

Not long after his return into England, that exemplary pattern 
of gravity and wisdom, the Lord Ellesmere, then Keeper of the 
' In his Preface to Pseudo-Martyr. 


Great Seal, the Lord Chancellor of England, taking notice of his 
learning, languages, and other abilities, and much affecting his 
person and behaviour, took him to be his chief secretary; supposing 
and intending it to be an introduction to some more weighty em- 
ployment in the State; for which, his Lordship did often protest, 
he thought him very fit. 

Nor did his Lordship in this time of Master Donne's attendance 
upon him, account him to be so much his servant, as to forget he was 
his friend; and, to testify it, did always use him with much courtesy, 
appointing him a place at his own table, to which he esteemed his 
company and discourse to be a great ornament. 

He continued that employment for the space of five years, being 
daily useful, and not mercenary to his friend. During which time, he 
— I dare not say unhappily — fell into such a liking, as — with her 
approbation — increased into a love, with a young gentlewoman that 
lived in that family, who was niece to the Lady Ellesmere, and 
daughter to Sir George More, then Chancellor of the Garter and 
Lieutenant of the Tower. 

Sir George had some intimation of it, and, knowing prevention to 
be a great part of wisdom, did therefore remove her with much 
haste from that to his own house at Lothesley, in the County of 
Surrey; but too late, by reason of some faithful promises which were 
so interchangeably passed, as never to be violated by either party. 

These promises were only known to themselves; and the friends 
of both parties used much diligence, and many arguments, to kill or 
cool their affections to each other: but in vain; for love is a flattering 
mischief, that hath denied aged and wise men a foresight of those 
evils that too often prove to be the children of that blind father; a 
passion, that carries us to commit errors with as much ease as whirl- 
winds move feathers, and begets in us an unwearied industry to the 
attainment of what we desire. And such an industry did, notwith- 
standing much watchfulness against it, bring them secretly together, 
— I forbear to tell the manner how, — and at last to a marriage too, 
without the allowance of those friends, whose approbation always 
was, and ever will be necessary, to make even a virtuous love become 

And, that the knowledge of their marriage might not fall, like an 


unexpected tempest, on those that were unwilling to have it so; and 
that pre-apprehensions might make it the less enormous when it was 
known, it was purposely whispered into the ears of many that it was 
so, yet by none that could affirm it. But, to put a period to the 
jealousies of Sir George, — doubt often begetting more restless 
thoughts than the certain knowledge of what we fear, — the news 
was, in favour to Mr. Donne, and with his allowance, made known 
to Sir George by his honourable friend and neighbour, Henry, Earl 
of Northumberland; but it was to Sir George so immeasurably 
unwelcome, and so transported him, that, as though his passion of 
anger and inconsideration might exceed theirs of love and error, 
he presently engaged his sister, the Lady EUesmere, to join with him 
to procure her lord to discharge Mr. Donne of the place he held 
under his Lordship. This request was followed with violence; and 
though Sir George was remembered that errors might be over- 
punished, and desired therefore to forbear till second considerations 
might clear some scruples, yet he became restless until his suit was 
granted, and the punishment executed. And though the Lord Chan- 
cellor did not, at Mr. Donne's dismission, give him such a commen- 
dation as the great Emperor Charles the Fifth did of his Secretary 
Eraso, when he parted with him to his son and successor, Philip 
the Second, saying, "That in his Eraso, he gave to him a greater 
gift than all his estate, and all the kingdoms which he then resigned 
to him;" yet the Lord Chancellor said, "He parted with a friend, 
and such a secretary as was fitter to serve a king than a subject." 

Immediately after his dismission from his service he sent a sad 
letter to his wife, to acquaint her with it; and after the subscription 
of his name, writ, 

John Donne, Anne Donne. Un-done; 

And God knows it proved too true; for this bitter physic of Mr. 
Donne's dismission was not enough to purge out all Sir George's 
choler; for he was not satisfied till Mr. Donne and his sometime 
com-pupil in Cambridge, that married him, namely, Samuel Brooke, 
who was after Doctor in Divinity and Master of Trinity College, 
and his brother, Mr. Christopher Brooke, sometime Mr, Donne's 
chamber-fellow in Lincoln's Inn, who gave Mr. Donne his wife, and 


witnessed the marriage, were all committed to three several prisons. 

Mr. Donne was first enlarged, who neither gave rest to his body 
or brain, nor to any friend in whom he might hope to have aa 
interest, until he had procured an enlargement for his two im* 
prisoned friends. 

He was now at liberty, but his days were still cloudy: and being 
past these troubles, others did still multiply upon him; for his wife 
was — to her extreme sorrow — detained from him; and though with 
Jacob he endured not a hard service for her, yet he lost a good one, 
and was forced to make good his title, and to get possession of her 
by a long and restless suit in law; which proved troublesome and 
sadly chargeable to him, whose youth, and travel, and needless 
bounty had brought his estate into a narrow compass. 

It is observed, and most truly, that silence and submission are 
charming qualities, and work most upon passionate men; and it 
proved so with Sir George; for these, and a general report of Mr. 
Donne's merits, together with his winning behaviour, which, when 
it would entice, had a strange kind of elegant irresistible art; — these 
and time had so dispassionated Sir George, that as the world 
approved his daughter's choice, so he also could not but see a more 
than ordinary merit in his new son; and this at last melted him into 
so much remorse, — for love and anger are so like agues, as to have 
hot and cold fits; and love in parents, though it may be quenched, 
yet is easily re-kindled, and expires not till death denies mankind 
a natural heat, — that he laboured his son's restoration to his place; 
using to that end both his own and his sister's power to her lord; 
but with no success, for his answer was, "That though he was un- 
feignedly sorry for what he had done, yet it was inconsistent with his 
place and credit to discharge and re-admit servants at the request of 
passionate petitioners." 

Sir George's endeavour for Mr. Donne's re-admission was by all 
means to be kept secret : for men do more naturally reluct for errors 
than submit to put on those blemishes that attend their visible 
acknowledgment. — But, however, it was not long before Sir George 
appeared to be so far reconciled as to wish their happiness, and not 
to deny them his paternal blessing, but yet refused to contribute any 
means that might conduce to their livelihood. 


Mr. Donne's estate was the greater part sp>ent in many and charge- 
able travels, books, and dear-bought experience; he out of all em- 
ployment that might yield a support for himself and wife, who had 
been curiously and plentifully educated; both their natures generous, 
and accustomed to confer, and not to receive, courtesies: these and 
other considerations, but chiefly that his wife was to bear a part in 
his sufferings, surrounded him with many sad thoughts, and some 
apparent apprehensions of want. 

But his sorrows were lessened and his wants prevented by the 
seasonable courtesy of their noble kinsman, Sir Francis Wolly, of 
Pirford, in Surrey, who entreated them to a cohabitation with him, 
where they remained with much freedom to themselves, and equal 
content to him, for some years; and as their charge increased — she 
had yearly a child — so did his love and bounty. 

It hath been observed by wise and considering men that wealth 
hath seldom been the portion, and never the mark to discover good 
people; but that Almighty God, who disposeth all things wisely, 
hath of his abundant goodness denied it — He only knows why — 
to many whose minds He hath enriched with the greater blessings 
of knowledge and virtue, as the fairer testimonies of his love to 
mankind: and this was the present condition of this man of so 
excellent erudition and endowments; whose necessary and daily 
exp)enses were hardly reconcilable with his uncertain and narrow 
estate. Which I mention, for that at this time there was a most 
generous offer made him for the moderating of his worldly 
cares; the declaration of which shall be the next employment of my 

God hath been so good to his church as to afford it in every age 
some such men to serve at his altar as have been piously ambitious of 
doing good to mankind; a disposition that is so like to God him- 
self that it owes itself only to Him, who takes a pleasure to behold it 
in his creatures. These times ^ He did bless with many such; some 
of which still live to be patterns of apostolical charity, and of more 
than human patience. I have said this because I have occasion to 
mention one of them in my following discourse, namely. Dr. Morton, 
the most laborious and learned Bishop of Durham; one that God 

* 1648. 


hath blessed with perfect intellectuals and a cheerful heart at the 
age of ninety-four years — and is yet living; — one that in his days of 
plenty had so large a heart as to use his large revenue to the encour- 
agement of learning and virtue, and is now — be it spoken with sor- 
row — reduced to a narrow estate, which he embraces without repin- 
ing; and still shows the beauty of his mind by so liberal a hand, 
as if this were an age in which to-morrow were to care for itself. 
I have taken a pleasure in giving the reader a short but true char- 
acter of this good man, my friend, from whom I received this 
following relation. — He sent to Mr. Donne, and entreated to borrow 
an hour of his time for a conference the next day. After their 
meeting there was not many minutes passed before he spake to 
Mr. Donne to this purpose: "Mr. Donne, the occasion of sending 
for you is to propose to you what I have often revolved in my own 
thought since I last saw you: which, nevertheless, I will not declare 
but upon this condition, that you shall not return me a present 
answer, but forbear three days, and bestow some part of that time in 
fasting and prayer; and after a serious consideration of what I 
shall propose, then return to me with your answer. Deny me not, 
Mr. Donne; for it is the effect of a true love, which I would gladly 
pay as a debt due for yours to me." 
This request being granted, the Doctor expressed himself thus: — 
"Mr. Donne, I know your education and abilities; I know your 
expectation of a State employment; and I know your fitness for it; 
and I know, too, the many delays and contingencies that attend 
Court promises: and let me tell you that my love, begot by our long 
friendship and your merits, hath prompted me to such an inquisi- 
tion after your present temporal estate as makes me no stranger to 
your necessities, which I know to be such as your generous spirit 
could not bear if it were not supported with a pious patience. You 
know I have formerly persuaded you to waive your Court hopes, 
and enter into holy orders; which I now again persuade you to 
embrace, with this reason added to my former request: The King 
hath yesterday made me Dean of Gloucester, and I am also possessed 
of a benefice, the profits of which are equal to those of my deanery; 
I will think my deanery enough for my maintenance, — who am, and 
resolved to die, a single man, — and will quit my benefice, and estate 


you in it, which the patron is willing I shall do, if God shall incline 
your heart to embrace this motion. Remember, Mr. Donne, no 
man's education or parts make him too good for this employment, 
which is to be an ambassador for the God of glory; that God who 
by a vile death opened the gates of life to mankind. Make me no 
present answer; but remember your promise, and return to me the 
third day with your resolution." 

At the hearing of this, Mr. Donne's faint breath and perplexed 
countenance give a visible testimony of an inward conflict; but he 
[performed his promise, and departed without returning an answer 
till the third day, and then his answer was to this effect: — 

"My most worthy and most dear friend, since I saw you I have 
been faithful to my promise, and have also meditated much of your 
great kindness, which hath been such as would exceed even my 
gratitude; but that it cannot do; and more I cannot return you; and 
I do that with an heart full of humility and thanks, though I may 
not accept of your offer: but, sir, my refusal is not for that I think 
myself too good for that calling, for which kings, if they think so, 
are not good enough; nor for that my education and learning, though 
not eminent, may not, being assisted with God's grace and humility, 
render me in some measure fit for it : but I dare make so dear a friend 
as you are my confessor. Some irregularities of my life have been so 
visible to some men, that though I have, I thank God, made my 
peace with Him by jjenitential resolutions against them, and by the 
assistance of his grace banished them my affections; yet this, which 
God knows to be so, is not so visible to man as to free me from 
their censures, and it may be that sacred calling from a dishonour. 
And besides, whereas it is determined by the best of casuists that 
God's glory should be the first end, and a maintenance the second 
motive to embrace that calling, and though each man may propose 
to himself both together, yet the first may not be put last without a 
violation of conscience, which he that searches the heart will judge. 
And truly my present condition is such that if I ask my own con- 
science whether it be reconcilable to that rule, it is at this time so 
perplexed about it, that I can neither give myself nor you an answer. 
You know, sir, who says, 'Happy is that man whose conscience doth 
not accuse him for that thing which he does.' To these I might 


add other reasons that dissuade me; but I crave your favour that I 
may forbear to express them, and thankfully decline your offer." 

This was his present resolution, but the heart of man is not in his 
own keeping; and he was destined to this sacred service by an 
higher hand — a hand so powerful as at last forced him to a compli- 
ance: of which I shall give the reader an account before I shall give 
a rest to my pen. 

Mr. Donne and his wife continued with Sir Francis Wolly till his 
death: a little before which time Sir Francis was so happy as to make 
a perfect reconciliation betwixt Sir George and his forsaken son and 
daughter; Sir George conditioning by bond to pay to Mr. Donne 
;(^8oo at a certain day, as a portion with his wife, or /20 quarterly 
for their maintenance as the interest for it, till the said portion was 

Most of those years that he lived with Sir Francis he studied the 
Civil and Canon Laws; in which he acquired such a perfection, as 
was judged to hold proportion with many who had made that study 
the employment of their whole life. 

Sir Francis being dead, and that happy family dissolved, Mr. 
Donne took for himself a house in Mitcham, near to Croydon in 
Surrey, a place noted for good air and choice company; there his 
wife and children remained; and for himself he took lodgings in 
London, near to Whitehall, whither his friends and occasions drew 
him very often, and where he was as often visited by many of the 
nobility and others of this nation, who used him in their counsels 
of greatest consideration, and with some rewards for his better 

Nor did our own nobility only value and favour him, but his 
acquaintance and friendship was sought for by most ambassadors 
of foreign nations, and by many other strangers, whose learning or 
business occasioned their stay in this nation. 

He was much importuned by many friends to make his constant 
residence in London; but he still denied it, having settled his dear 
wife and children at Mitcham, and near some friends that were 
bountiful to them and him; for they, God knows, needed it: and 
that you may the better now judge of the then present condition 


of his mind and fortune, I shall present you with an extract collected 
out of some few of his many letters. 

". . . And the reason why I did not send an answer to your last 
week's letter was, because it then found me under too great a sad- 
ness; and at present 'tis thus with me: There is not one person, but 
myself, well of my family : I have already lost half a child, and, with 
that mischance of hers, my wife has fallen into such a discomposure 
as would afflict her too extremely, but that the sickness of all her 
other children stupefies her — of one of which, in good faith, I have 
not much hope; and these meet with a fortune so ill-provided for 
physic, and such relief, that if God should ease us with burials, I 
know not how to perform even that: but I flatter myself with this 
hope, that I am dying too; for I cannot waste faster than by such 
griefs. As for, — 

From my Hospital at Mitcham, 

Aug. 10. John Donne." 

Thus he did bemoan himself; and thus in other letters — 

". . . For, we hardly discover a sin, when it is but an omission of 
some good, and no accusing act: with this or the former I have 
often suspected myself to be overtaken; which is, with an over- 
earnest desire of the next life: and, though I know it is not merely 
a weariness of this, because I had the same desire when I went with 
the tide, and enjoyed fairer hopes than I now do; yet I doubt worldly 
troubles have increased it: 'tis now spring, and all the pleasures of 
it displease me; every other tree blossoms, and I wither; I grow older, 
and not better; my strength diminisheth, and my load grows heavier; 
and yet I would fain be or do something; but that I cannot tell 
what, is no wonder in this time of my sadness; for to choose is to 
do: but to be no part of any body is as to be nothing: and so I am, 
and shall so judge myself, unless I could be so incorporated into a 
part of the world, as by business to contribute some sustentation 
to the whole. This I made account: I began early, when I under- 
stood the study of our laws; but was diverted by leaving that, and 
embracing the worst voluptuousness, an hydroptic immoderate 


desire of human learning and languages; beautiful ornaments indeed 
to men of great fortunes, but mine was grown so low as to need an 
occupation; which I thought I entered well into, when I subjected 
myself to such a service as I thought might exercise my poor abilities: 
and there I stumbled, and fell too; and now I am become so little, 
or such a nothing, that I am not a subject good enough for one of 
my own letters. — Sir, I fear my present discontent does not proceed 
from a good root, that I am so well content to be nothing, that is, 
dead. But, sir, though my fortune hath made me such, as that I am 
rather a sickness or a disease of the world, than any part of it, and 
therefore neither love it nor life, yet I would gladly live to become 
some such thing as you should not repent loving me. Sir, your own 
soul cannot be more zealous for your good than I am; and God, 
who loves that zeal in me, will not suffer you to doubt it. You would 
pity me now if you saw me write, for my pain hath drawn my head 
so much awry, and holds it so, that my eye cannot follow my pen. 
I therefore receive you into my prayers with mine own weary soul, 
and commend myself to yours. I doubt not but next week will bring 
you good news, for I have either mending or dying on my side; but 
if I do continue longer thus, I shall have comfort in this, that my 
blessed Saviour in exercising his justice upon my two worldly parts, 
my fortune and my body, reserves all his mercy for that which most 
needs it, my soul! which is, I doubt, too like a porter, that is very 
often near the gate, and yet goes not out. Sir, I profess to you truly 
that my loathness to give over writing now seems to myself a sign 
that I shall write no more. 

Your poor friend, and 

God's poor patient, 
Sept. 7. John Donne." 

By this you have seen a part of the picture of his narrow fortune, 
and the perplexities of his generous mind: and thus it continued with 
him for about two years, all which time his family remained con- 
stantly at Mitcham; and to whicii place he often retired himself, and 
destined some days to a constant study of some p)oints of controversy 
betwixt the English and Roman Church, and especially those of 
Supremacy and Allegiance: and to that place and such studies he 


could willingly have wedded himself during his life; but the earnest 
persuasion of friends became at last to be so powerful as to cause 
the removal of himself and family to London, where Sir Robert 
Drewry, a gentleman of a very noble estate, and a more liberal mind, 
assigned him and his wife an useful apartment in his own large 
house in Drury Lane, and not only rent free, but was also a cher- 
isher of his studies, and such a friend as sympathised with him and 
his, in all their joy and sorrows. 

At this time of Mr. Donne's and his wife's living in Sir Robert's 
house, the Lord Hay was, by King James, sent upon a glorious 
embassy to the then French king, Henry the Fourth; and Sir Robert 
put on a sudden resolution to accompany him to the French court, 
and to be present at his audience there. And Sir Robert put on a 
sudden resolution to solicit Mr. Donne to be his companion in that 
journey. And this desire was suddenly made known to his wife, 
who was then with child, and otherwise under so dangerous a habit 
of body, as to her health, that she professed an unwillingness to allow 
him any absence from her; saying, "Her divining soul boded her 
some ill in his absence;" and therefore desired him not to leave her. 
This made Mr. Donne lay aside all thoughts of the journey, and 
really to resolve against it. But Sir Robert became restless in his 
persuasions for it, and Mr. Donne was so generous as to think he 
had sold his liberty, when he received so many charitable kindnesses 
from him; and told his wife so, who did therefore, with an unwilling- 
willingness, give a faint consent to the journey, which was proposed 
to be but for two months; for about that time they determined their 
return. Within a few days after this resolve, the Ambassador, Sir 
Robert, and Mr. Donne left London; and were the twelfth day got 
all safe to Paris. Two days after their arrival there, Mr. Donne was 
left alone in that room in which Sir Robert, and he, and some other 
friends had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within 
half-an-hour; and as he left, so he found, Mr. Donne alone, but in 
such an ecstasy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert 
to behold him; insomuch that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to 
declare what had befallen him in the short time of his absence. To 
which Mr. Donne was not able to make a present answer, but after a 
long and perplexed pause, did at last say, "I have seen a dreadful 


vision since I saw you: I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me 
through this room, with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and 
a dead child in her arms; this I have seen since I saw you." To 
which Sir Robert replied, "Sure, sir, you have slept since I saw you; 
and this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you 
to forget, for you are now awake." To which Mr. Donne's reply 
was, "I cannot be surer that I now live than that I have not slept 
since I saw you; and am as sure that at her second appearing she 
stopped and looked me in the face, and vanished." Rest and sleep 
had not altered Mr. Donne's opinion the next day, for he then 
affirmed this opinion with a more deliberate, and so confirmed a 
confidence, that he inclined Sir Robert to a faint belief that the vision 
was true. — It is truly said that desire and doubt have no rest, and it 
proved so with Sir Robert; for he immediately sent a servant to 
Drewry House, with a charge to hasten back, and bring him word 
whether Mrs. Donne were alive; and, if alive, in what condition she 
was as to her health. The twelfth day, the messenger returned with 
this account : That he found and left Mrs. Donne very sad, and sick 
in her bed; and that, after a long and dangerous labour, she had 
been delivered of a dead child. And, upon examination, the abortion 
proved to be the same day, and about the very hour, that Mr. Donne 
affirmed he saw her pass by him in his chamber. 

This is a relation that will beget some wonder, and it well may; 
for most of our world are at present possessed with an opinion that 
visions and miracles are ceased. And, though it is most certain that 
two lutes being both strung and tuned to an equal pitch, and then 
one played upon, the other, that is not touched, being laid upon a 
table at a fit distance, will — like an echo to a trumpet — wartle a faint 
audible harmony in answer to the same tune; yet many will not 
believe there is any such thing as a sympathy of souls; and I am well 
pleased that every reader do enjoy his own opinion. But if the un- 
believing will not allow the believing reader of this story a liberty 
to believe that it may be true, then I wish him to consider, many wise 
men have believed that the ghost of Julius Cisar did appear to 
Brutus, and that both St. Austin and Monica his mother had visions 
in order to his conversion. And though these, and many others — too 
many to name — have but the authority of human story, yet the in- 


credible reader may find in the sacred story' that Samuel did appear 
to Saul even after his death — whether really or not, I undertake not 
to determine. — And Bildad, in the Book of Job, says these words: 
"A spirit passed before my face; the hair of my head stood up; fear 
and trembling came upon me, and made all my bones to shake." * 
Upon which words I will make no comment, but leave them to be 
considered by the incredulous reader; to whom I will also commend 
this following consideration: That there be many pious and learned 
men that believe our merciful God hath assigned to every man a 
particular guardian angel, to be his constant monitor, and to attend 
him in all his dangers, both of body and soul. And the opinion that 
every man hath his particular Angel may gain some authority by 
the relation of St. Peter's miraculous deliverance out of prison,' not 
by many, but by one angel. And this belief may yet gain more 
credit by the reader's considering, that when Peter after his enlarge- 
ment knocked at the door of Mary the mother of John, and Rhode, 
the maidservant, being surprised with joy that Peter was there, did 
not let him in, but ran in haste and told the disciples — who were 
then and there met together — that Peter was at the door; and they, 
not believing it, said she was mad; yet, when she again affirmed it, 
though they then believed it not, yet they concluded, and said, "It 
is his angel." 

More observations of this nature, and inferences from them, might 
be made to gain the relation a firmer belief; but I forbear, lest I, 
that intended to be but a relator, may be thought to be an engaged 
person for the proving what was related to me; and yet I think 
myself bound to declare, that though it was not told me by Mr. 
Donne himself, it was told me — now long since — by a person of 
honour, and of such intimacy with him, that he knew more of the 
secrets of his soul than any person then living: and I think he told 
me the truth; for it was told with such circumstances, and such 
asseverations, that — to say nothing of my own thoughts — I verily 
believe he that told it me did himself believe it to be true. 

I forbear the reader's further trouble, as to the relation, and what 
concerns it; and will conclude mine with commending to his view 

*i Sam. xxvtii. 14. *Job iv. 13-16. 

'Acts xii. 7-10; ib. 13-15. 


a copy of verses given by Mr. Donne to his wife at the time he then 
parted from her. And I beg leave to tell that I have heard some 
critics, learned both in languages and poetry, say that none of the 
Greek or Latin poets did ever equal them. 

A Valediction, Forbidding to Mourn 

As virtuous men pass mildly away, 

And whisper to their souls to go, 
Whilst some of their sad friends do say. 

The breath goes now, and some say No: 

So let us melt, and make no noise. 
No tear-floods, nor sigh-temf)ests move; 

'Twere profanation of our joys, 
To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th* earth brings harms and fears: 

Men reckon what it did or meant: 
But trepidation of the spheres. 

Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull sublunary lovers' love — 

Whose soul is sense — can not admit 
Absence, because that doth remove 

Those things which elemented it. 

But we, by a love so far refined. 

That ourselves know not what it is, 
Inter-assured of the mind, 

Care not hands, eyes, or lips to miss. 

Our two souls therefore which are one, — 

Though I must go, endure not yet 
A breach, but an expansion, 

Like gold to airy thinness beat. 

If we be two? we are two so 

As stiff twin-compasses are two: 
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show 

To move, but does if th' other do. 


And though thine in the centre sit, 

Yet, when my other far does roam, 
Thine leans and hearkens after it, 

And grows erect as mine comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must. 

Like th' other foot, obliquely run: 
Thy firmness makes my circle just, 

And me to end where I begun. 

I return from my account of the vision, to tell the reader that both 
before Mr. Donne's going into France, at his being there, and after 
his return, many of the nobility and others that were powerful at 
Qjurt, were watchful and solicitous to the King for some secular 
employment for him. The King had formerly both known and 
put a value upon his company, and had also given him some hopes 
of a State employment; being always much pleased when Mr. Donne 
attended him, especially at his meals, where there were usually many 
deep discourses of general learning, and very often friendly disputes, 
or debates of reHgion, betwixt his Majesty and those divines whose 
places required their attendance on him at those times, particularly 
the Dean of the Chapel, who then was Bishop Montague — the pub- 
lisher of the learned and the eloquent works of his Majesty — and the 
most Reverend Doctor Andrews, the late learned Bishop of Win- 
chester, who was then the King's almoner. 

About this time there grew many disputes that concerned the 
oath of supremacy and allegiance, in which the King had appeared, 
and engaged himself by his public writings now extant; and his 
Majesty discoursing with Mr. Donne concerning many of the rea- 
sons which are usually urged against the taking of those oaths, 
apprehended such a validity and clearness in his stating the ques- 
tions, and his answers to them, that his Majesty commanded him to 
bestow some time in drawing the arguments into a method, and then 
to write his answers to them; and, having done that, not to send, 
but be his own messenger, and bring them to him. To this he 
presently and diligently applied himself, and within six weeks 
brought them to him under his own handwriting, as they be now 
printed; the book bearing the name of Pseudo-Martyr, printed 
anno 1610. 


When the King had read and considered that book, he persuaded 
Mr. Donne to enter into the ministry; to which, at that time, he was, 
and appeared, very unwilling, apprehending it — such was his mis- 
taken modesty — to be too weighty for his abilities: and though his 
Majesty had promised him a favour, and many persons of worth 
mediated with his Majesty for some secular employment for him, — 
to which his education had adapted him, — and particularly the E^rl 
of Somerset, when in his greatest height of favour; who being then 
at Theobald's with the King, where one of the clerks of the council 
died that night, the Earl posted a messenger for Mr. Donne to come 
to him immediately, and at Mr. Donne's coming said, "Mr. Donne, 
to testify the reality of my affection, and my purpose to prefer you, 
stay in this garden till I go up to the King and bring you word that 
you are clerk of the council: doubt not my doing this, for I know 
the King loves you, and know the King will not deny me." But 
the King gave a positive denial to all requests, and, having a discern- 
ing spirit, replied, "I know Mr. Donne is a learned man, has the 
abilities of a learned divine, and will prove a powerful preacher; 
and my desire is to prefer him that way, and in that way I will deny 
you nothing for him." 

After that time, as he professeth,' "the King descended to a per- 
suasion, almost to a solicitation, of him to enter into sacred orders;" 
which, though he then denied not, yet he deferred it for almost 
three years. All which time he applied himself to an incessant study 
of textual divinity, and to the attainment of a greater perfection in 
the learned languages, Greek and Hebrew. 

In the first and most blessed times of Christianity, when the clergy 
were looked upon with reverence, and deserved it, when they over- 
came their opposers by high examples of virtue, by a blessed patience 
and long suffering, those only were then judged worthy the ministry 
whose quiet and meek spirits did make them look upon that sacred 
calling with an humble adoration and fear to undertake it; which 
indeed requires such great degrees of humility, and labour, and care, 
that none but such were then thought worthy of that celestial dignity. 
And such only were then sought out, and solicited to undertake it. 
This I have mentioned, because forwardness and inconsideration 
'In his Book of Devotions. 


could not, in Mr. Donne, as in many others, be an argument of in- 
sufficiency or unfitness; for he had considered long, and had many 
strifes within himself concerning the strictness of life, and com- 
petency of learning, required in such as enter into sacred orders; and 
doubtless, considering his own demerits, did humbly ask God with 
St. Paul, "Lord, who is sufficient for these things?" and with meek 
Moses, "Lord, who am I ?" And sure, if he had consulted with flesh 
and blood, he had not for these reasons put his hand to that holy 
plough. But God, who is able to prevail, wrestled with him, as the 
angel did with Jacob, and marked him; marked him for his own; 
marked him with a blessing, a blessing of obedience to the motions 
of his blessed Spirit. And then, as he had formerly asked God with 
Moses, "Who am I ?" so now, being inspired with an apprehension of 
God's particular mercy to him, in the King's and others' solicitations 
of him he came to ask King David's thankful question, "Lord, who 
am I, that thou art so mindful of me?" So mindful of me, as to lead 
me for more than forty years through this wilderness of the many 
temptations and vario'is turnings of a dangerous life; so merciful 
to me, as to move the learnedest of Kings to descend to move me 
to serve at the altar! So merciful to me, as at last to move my heart 
to embrace this holy motion! Thy motions I will and do embrace; 
and I now say with the blessed Virgin, "Be it with thy servant as 
seemeth best in thy sight"; and so, Blessed Jesus, I do take the cup 
of salvation, and will call upon thy name, and will preach thy 

Such strifes as these St. Austin had, when St. Ambrose endeav- 
oured his conversion to Christianity; with which he confesseth he 
acquainted his friend Alipius. Our learned author — a man fit to 
write after no mean copy — did the like. And declaring his inten- 
tions to his dear friend Dr. King, then Bishop of London, a man 
famous in his generation, and no stranger to Mr. Donne's abilities, — 
for he had been chaplain to the Lord Chancellor at the time of Mr. 
Donne's being his Lordship's secretary, — that reverend man did 
receive the news with much gladness; and, after some expressions 
of joy, and a persuasion to be constant in his pious purpose, he pro- 
ceeded with all convenient speed to ordain him first deacon, and 
then priest not long after. 


Now the English Church had gained a second St. Austin; for I 
think none was so Hke him before his conversion, none so Hke St. 
Ambrose after it: and if his youth had the infirmities of the one, 
his age had the excellencies of the other; the learning and holiness 
of both. 

And now all his studies, which had been occasionally diffused, 
were all concentered in divinity. Now he had a new calling, new 
thoughts, and a new employment for his wit and eloquence. Now, 
all his earthly affections were changed into divine love; and all the 
faculties of his own soul were engaged in the conversion of others; 
in preaching the glad tidings of remission to repenting sinners, and 
peace to each troubled soul. 

To these he applied himself with all care and diligence; and now 
such a change was wrought in him, that he could say with David, 
"O how amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord God of Hosts!" Now 
he declared openly, "that when he required a temporal, God gave 
him a spiritual blessing." And that "he was now gladder to be a 
door-keeper in the house of God, than he could be to enjoy the 
noblest of all temporal employments." 

Presently after he entered into his holy profession, the King sent 
for him, and made him his chaplain in ordinary, and promised to 
take a particular care for his preferment. 

And though his long familiarity with scholars and pwrsons of 
greatest quality was such as might have given some men boldness 
enough to have preached to any eminent auditory, yet his modesty 
in this employment was such that he could not be persuaded to it, 
but went usually accompanied with some one friend to preach 
privately in some village, not far from London, his first sermon 
being preached at Paddington. This he did, till his Majesty sent 
and appointed him a day to preach to him at Whitehall; and, though 
much were expected from him, both by his Majesty and others, yet 
he was so happy — which few are — as to satisfy and exceed their 
expectations: preaching the Word so, as showed his own heart was 
possessed with those very thoughts and joys that he laboured to distil 
into others; a preacher in earnest; weeping sometimes for his audi- 
tory, sometimes with them; always preaching to himself, like an 
angel from a cloud, but in none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, 


to heaven in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and 
courtship to amend their lives; here picturing a vice so as to make 
it ugly to those that practised it, and a virtue so as to make it be- 
loved even by those that loved it not; and all this with a most par- 
ticular grace and an unexpressible addition of comeliness. 

There may be some that may incline to think — such indeed as have 
not heard him — that my affection to my friend hath transported me 
to an immoderate commendation of his preaching. If this meets 
with any such, let me entreat, though I will omit many, yet that they 
will receive a double witness for what I say; it being attested by a 
gentleman of worth, — Mr. Chidley, a frequent hearer of his sermons, 
— in part of a funeral elegy writ by him on Dr. Donne; and is a 
known truth, though it be in verse — 

— Each altar had his fire — 
He kept his love, but not his object; wit 
He did not banish, but transplanted it; 
Taught it both time and place, and brought it home 
To piety which it doth best become. 

For say, had ever pleasure such a dress? 

Have you seen crimes so shaped, or loveliness 

Such as his lips did clothe religion in? 

Had not reproof a beauty passing sin? 

Corrupted Nature sorrow'd that she stood 

So near the danger of becoming good. 

And, when he preached, she wish'd her ears exempt 

From piety, that had such jx)wer to tempt. 

How did his sacred flattery beguile 

Men to amend? — 

More of this, and more witnesses, might be brought; but I forbear 
and return. 

That summer, in the very same month in which he entered into 
sacred orders, and was made the King's chaplain, his Majesty then 
going his progress, was entreated to receive an entertainment in the 
University of Cambridge; and Mr. Donne attending his Majesty 
at that time, his Majesty was pleased to recommend him to the 
University, to be made doctor in divinity. Dr. Harsnett, after 
Archbishop of York, was then Vice-Chancellor, who, knowing him 


to be the author of that learned book, The Pseudo-Martyr, required 
no other proof of his abiHties, but proposed it to the University, who 
presently assented, and expressed a gladness that they had such an 
occasion to entitle him to be theirs. 

His abilities and industry in his profession were so eminent, and 
he so known and so beloved by persons of quality, that within the 
first year of his entering into sacred orders he had fourteen advow- 
sons of several benefices presented to him; but they were in the 
country, and he could not leave his beloved London, to which place 
he had a natural inclination, having received both his birth and 
education in it, and there contracted a friendship with many, whose 
conversation multiplied the joys of his life: but an employment that 
might affix him that place would be welcome, for he needed it. 

Immediately after his return from Cambridge his wife died, leav- 
ing him a man of a narrow, unsettled state, and — having buried five 
— the careful father of seven children then living, to whom he gave 
a voluntary assurance never to bring them under the subjection of 
a step-mother; which promise he kept most faithfully, burying with 
his tears all his earthly joys in his most dear and deserving wife's 
grave, and betook himself to a most retired and solitary life. 

In this retiredness, which was often from the sight of his dearest 
friends, he became crucified to the world, and all those vanities, 
those imaginary pleasures, that are daily acted on that restless stage; 
and they were as perfectly crucified to him. Nor is it hard to think — 
being, passions may be both changed and heightened by accidents — 
but that that abundant affection which once was betwixt him and 
her, who had long been the delight of his eyes and the companion 
of his youth; her, with whom he had divided so many pleasant 
sorrows and contented fears, as common people are not capable of; 
— not hard to think but that she being now removed by death, a 
commensurable grief took as full a possession of him as joy had 
done; and so indeed it did; for now his very soul was elemented of 
nothing but sadness; now grief took so full a possession of his heart, 
as to leave no place for joy: if it did, it was a joy to be alone, where, 
like a pelican in the wilderness, he might bemoan himself without 
witness or restraint, and pour forth his passions like Job in the days 
of his affliction: "Oh that I might have the desire of my heart! Oh 


that God would grant the thing that I long fori" For then, as the 
grave is become her house, so I would hasten to make it mine also; 
that we two might there make our beds together in the dark. Thus, 
as the Israelites sat mourning by the rivers of Babylon, when they 
remembered Sion, so he gave some ease to his oppressed heart by 
thus venting his sorrows: thus he began the day, and ended the 
night; ended the restless night and began the weary day in lamenta- 
tions. And thus he continued, till a consideration of his new engage- 
ments to God, and St. Paul's "Woe is me, if I preach not the gospel!" 
dispersed those sad clouds that had then benighted his hopes, and 
now forced him to behold the light. 

His first motion from his house was to preach where his beloved 
wife lay buried, — in St. Clement's Church, near Temple Bar, Lon- 
don, — and his text was a part of the Prophet Jeremy's Lamentation : 
"Lo, I am the man that have seen affliction." 

And indeed his very words and looks testified him to be truly 
such a man; and they, with the addition of his sighs and tears, ex- 
pressed in his sermon, did so work upon the affections of his hearers, 
as melted and moulded them into a companionable sadness; and so 
they left the congregation; but then their houses presented them 
with objects of diversion, and his presented him with nothing but 
fresh objects of sorrow, in beholding many helpless children, a nar- 
row fortune, and a consideration of the many cares and casualties 
that attend their education. 

In this time of sadness he was importuned by the grave Benchers 
of Lincoln's Inn — who were once his companions and friends of his 
youth — to accept of their lecture, which, by reason of Dr. Gataker's 
removal from thence, was then void; of which he accepted, being 
most glad to renew his intermitted friendship with those whom he 
so much loved, and where he had been a Saul, — though not to 
persecute Christianity, or to deride it, yet in his irregular youth to 
neglect the visible practice of it, — there to become a Paul, and preach 
salvation to his beloved brethren. 

And now his life was a shining light among his old friends; now 
he gave an ocular testimony of the strictness and regularity of it; 
now he might say, as St. Paul adviseth his Corinthians, "Be ye 
followers of me, as I follow Christ, and walk as ye have me for an 


example;" not the example of a busy body, but of a contemplative, 
a harmless, an humble and an holy life and conversation. 

The love of that noble society was expressed to him many ways; 
for, besides fair lodging that were set apart, and newly furnished 
for him with all necessaries, other courtesies were also daily added; 
indeed so many, and so freely, as if they meant their gratitude should 
exceed his merits : and in this love-strife of desert and liberality, they 
continued for the space of two years, he preaching faithfully and 
constantly to them, and they liberally requiting him. About which 
lime the Emperor of Germany died, and the Palsgrave, who had 
lately married the Lady Elizabeth, the king's only daughter, was 
elected and crowned King of Bohemia, the unhappy beginning of 
many miseries in that nation. 

King James, whose motto — Bead pacifici — did truly speak the very 
thoughts of his heart, endeavoured first to prevent, and after to 
compose, the discords of that discomjxjsed State: and, amongst other 
his endeavours, did then send the Lord Hay, Earl of Doncaster, his 
ambassador to those unsettled Princes; and, by a special command 
from his Majesty, Dr. Donne was appointed to assist and attend that 
employment to the princes of the union; for which the Earl was 
most glad, who had always put a great value on him, and taken a 
great pleasure in his conversation and discourse: and his friends at 
Lincoln's Inn were as glad, for they feared that his immoderate 
study and sadness for his wife's death would, as Jacob said, "make 
his days few," and, respecting his bodily health, "evil" too; and of 
this there were many visible signs. 

At his going he left his friends of Lincoln's Inn, and they him, 
with many reluctations; for, though he could not say as St. Paul to 
his Ephesians, "Behold, you, to whom I have preached the Kingdom 
of God, shall from henceforth see my face no more," yet he, believing 
himself to be in a consumption, questioned, and they feared it: all 
concluding that his troubled mind, with the help of his unintermitted 
studies, hastened the decays of his weak body. But God, who is the 
God of all wisdom and goodness, turned it to the best; for this 
employment — to say nothing of the event of it — did not only divert 
him from those too serious studies and sad thoughts, but seemed to 
give him a new life, by a true occasion of joy, to be an eye-witness 


of the health of his most dear and most honoured mistress, the Queen 
of Bohemia, in a foreign nation; and to be a witness of that gladness 
which she expressed to see him: who, having formerly known him 
a courtier, was much joyed to see him in a canonical habit, and 
more glad to be an ear-witness of his excellent and powerful 

About fourteen months after his departure out of England, he 
returned to his friends of Lincoln's Inn, with his sorrows moderated, 
and his health improved; and there betook himself to his constant 
course of preaching. 

About a year after his return out of Germany, Dr. Carey was made 
Bishop of Exeter, and by his removal the Deanery of St. Paul's being 
vacant, the King sent to Dr. Donne, and appointed him to attend 
him at dinner the next day. When his Majesty sat down, before 
he had eat any meat, he said after his pleasant manner, "Dr. 
Donne, I have invited you to dinner; and, though you sit not 
down with me, yet I will carve to you of a dish that I know you love 
well; for, knowing you love London, I do therefore make you Dean 
of St. Paul's; and, when I have dined, then do you take your beloved 
dish home to your study, say grace there to yourself, and much good 
may it do you." 

Immediately after he came to his deanery he employed workmen 
to repair and beautify the chapel; suffering, as holy David once 
vowed, "his eyes and temples to take no rest till he had first beau- 
tified the house of God." 

The next quarter following, when his father-in-law, Sir George 
More — whom time had made a lover and admirer of him — came to 
pay to him the conditioned sum of twenty pounds, he refused to 
receive it; and said, as good Jacob did when he heard his beloved 
son Joseph was alive, " 'It is enough;' you have been kind to me and 
mine. I know your present condition is such as not to abound, and 
I hope mine is, or will be such as not to need it: I will therefore 
receive no more from you up>on that contract;" and in testimony of 
it freely gave him up his bond. 

Immediately after his admission into his deanery, the vicarage of 
St. Dunstan in the West, London, fell to him by the death of Dr. 
White, the advowson of it having been given to him long before 


by his honourable friend, Richard, Earl of Dorset, then the patron, 
and confirmed by his brother, the late deceased Edward, both of them 
men of much honour. 

By these, and another ecclesiastical endowment which fell to him 
about the same time, given to him formerly by the Earl of Kent, 
he was enabled to become charitable to the poor, and kind to his 
friends, and to make such provision for his children that they were 
not left scandalous, as relating to their or his profession and quality. 

The next Parliament, which was within that present year, he was 
chosen Prolocutor to the Convocation, and about that time was 
appointed by his Majesty, his most gracious master, to preach very 
many occasional sermons, as at St. Paul's Cross, and other places. 
All which employments he performed to the admiration of the rep- 
resentative body of the whole clergy of this nation. 

He was once, and but once, clouded with the King's displeasure, 
and it was about this time; which was occasioned by some malicious 
whisperer, who had told his Majesty that Dr. Donne had put on 
the general humours of the pulpits, and was become busy in insin- 
uating a fear of the King's inclining to Popery, and a dislike of his 
government; and particularly for the King's then turning the eve- 
ning lectures into catechising, and expounding the Prayer of our 
Lord, and of the Belief and Commandments. His Majesty was the 
more inclinable to believe this, for that a person of nobility and great 
note, betwixt whom and Dr. Donne there had been a great friend- 
ship, was at this very time discarded the court — I shall forbear his 
name, unless I had a fairer occasion — and justly committed to prison; 
which begot many rumours in the common people, who in this 
nation think they are not wise unless they be busy about what they 
understand not, and especially about religion. 

The King received this news with so much discontent and rest- 
lessness, that he would not suffer the sun to set and leave him under 
this doubt; but sent for Dr. Donne, and required his answer to the 
accusation; which was so clear and satisfactory, that the King said 
"he was right glad he rested no longer under the suspicion." When 
the King had said this, Dr. Donne kneeled down and thanked his 
Majesty, and protested his answer was faithful, and free from all 
collusion, and therefore, "desired that he might not rise till, as in 


like cases, he always had from God, so he might have from his 
Majesty, some assurance that he stood clear and fair in his opinion." 
At which the King raised him from his knees with his own hands, 
and "protested he believed him; and that he knew he was an honest 
man, and doubted not but that he loved him truly." And, having 
thus dismissed him, he called some lords of his council into his 
chamber, and said with much earnestness, "My doctor is an honest 
man; and, my lords, I was never better satisfied with an answer than 
he hath now made me; and I always rejoice when I think that by 
my means he became a divine." 

He was made dean in the fiftieth year of his age; and in his fifty- 
fourth year a dangerous sickness seized him, which inclined him to 
a consumption : but God, as Job thankfully acknowledged, preserved 
his spirit, and kept his intellectuals as clear and perfect as when that 
sickness first seized his body; but it continued long, and threatened 
him with death, which he dreaded not. 

In this distemper of body, his dear friend. Dr. Henry King, — then 
chief residentiary of that church, and late Bishop of Chichester, — a 
man generally known by the clergy of this nation, and as generally 
noted for his obliging nature, visited him daily; and observing that 
his sickness rendered his recovery doubtful, he chose a seasonable 
time to speak to him to this purpose: 

"Mr. Dean, I am, by your favour, no stranger to your temporal 
estate, and you are no stranger to the offer lately made us, for the 
renewing a lease of the best Prebend's corps belonging to our church; 
and you know 'twas denied, for that our tenant being very rich, 
offered to fine at so low a rate as held not proportion with his ad- 
vantages: but I will either raise him to a higher sum, or procure 
that the other residentiaries shall join to accept of what was offered; 
one of these I can and will by your favour do without delay, and 
without any trouble either to your body or mind: I beseech you to 
accept of my offer, for I know it will be a considerable addition to 
your present estate, which I know needs it." 

To this, after a short pause, and raising himself upon his bed, he 
made this reply : 

"My most dear friend, I most humbly thank you for your many 
favours, and this in particular; but in my present condition I shall 


not accept of your proposal; for doubtless there is such a sin as 
sacrilege; if there were not, it could not have a name in Scripture; 
and the primitive clergy were watchful against all appearances of 
that evil; and indeed then all Christians looked upon it with horror 
and detestation, judging it to be even an open defiance of the power 
and providence of Almighty God, and a sad presage of a declining 
religion. But instead of such Christians, who had selected times set 
apart to fast and pray to God, for a pious clergy, which they then 
did obey, our times abound with men that are busy and litigious 
about trifles and church ceremonies, and yet so far from scrupling 
sacrilege, that they make not so much as a quarre what it is: but I 
thank God I have; and dare not now upon my sick-bed, when 
Almighty God hath made me useless to the service of the Church, 
make any advantages out of it. But if He shall again restore me to 
such a degree of health, as again to serve at his altar, I shall then 
gladly take the reward which the bountiful benefactors of this church 
have designed me; for God knows my children and relations will 
need it. In which number, my mother — whose credulity and charity 
has contracted a very plentiful to a very narrow estate — must not 
be forgotten. But, Dr. King, if I recover not, that little worldly estate 
that I shall leave behind me — that very little, when divided into eight 
parts — must, if you deny me not so charitable a favour, fall into your 
hands, as my most faithful friend and executor, of whose care and 
justice I make no more doubt than of God's blessing, on that which 
I have conscientiously collected for them; but it shall not be aug- 
mented on my sick-bed; and this I declare to be my unalterable 

The reply to this was only a promise to observe his request. 

Within a few days his distempers abated; and as his strength 
increased, so did his thankfulness to Almighty God, testified in his 
most excellent Book of Devotions, which he published at his re- 
covery; in which the reader may see the most secret thoughts that 
then possessed his soul, paraphrased and made public: a book that 
may not unfitly be called a sacred picture of spiritual ecstasies, 
occasioned and appliable to the emergencies of that sickness; which 
book, being a composition of meditations, disquisitions, and prayers, 
he writ on his sick-bed; herein imitating the holy patriarchs, who 


were wont to build their altars in that place where they had received 
their blessings. 

This sickness brought him so near to the gates of death, and he 
saw the grave so ready to devour him, that he would often say his 
recovery was supernatural: but that God that then restored his health 
continued it to him till the fifty-ninth year of his life; and then, in 
August 1630, being with his eldest daughter, Mrs. Harvey, at Abury 
Hatch, in Essex, he there fell into a fever, which with the help of his 
constant infirmity — vapours from the spleen — hastened him into so 
visible a consumption that his beholders might say, as St. Paul of 
himself, "He dies daily;" and he might say with Job, "My welfare 
passeth away as a cloud, the days of my affliction have taken hold of 
me, and weary nights are appointed for me." 

Reader, this sickness continued long, not only weakening, but 
wearying him so much, that my desire is he may now take some 
rest; and that before I speak of his death, thou wilt not think it an 
impertinent digression to look back with me upon some observations 
of his life, which, whilst a gentle slumber give rest to his spirits, may, 
I hope, not unfitly exercise thy consideration. 

His marriage was the remarkable error of his life — an error which, 
though he had a wit able and very apt to maintain paradoxes, yet 
he was very far from justifying it; and though his wife's competent 
years, and other reasons, might be justly urged to moderate severe 
censures, yet he would occasionally condemn himself for it; and 
doubtless it had been attended with an heavy repentance, if God 
had not blessed them with so mutual and cordial affections, as in 
the midst of their sufferings made their bread of sorrow taste more 
pleasantly than the banquets of dull and low-spirited people. 

The recreations of his youth were poetry, in which he was so 
happy, as if nature and all her varieties had been made only to 
exercise his sharp wit and high fancy; and in those pieces which 
were facetiously composed and carelessly scattered — most of them 
being written before the twentieth year of his age — it may appear 
by his choice metaphors that both nature and all the arts joined to 
assist him with their utmost skill. 

It is a truth, that in his penitential years, viewing some of those 
pieces that had been loosely — God knows, too loosely — scattered in 


his youth, he wished they had been abortive, or so short-hved that 
his own eyes had witnessed their funerals: but, though he was no 
friend to them, he was not so fallen out with heavenly poetry as to 
forsake that; no, not in his declining age; witnessed then by many 
divine sonnets, and other high, holy, and harmonious composures. 
Yea, even, on his former sick-bed he wrote this heavenly hymn, 
expressing the great joy that then possessed his soul in the assurance 
o£ God's favour to him when he composed it — 



Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, 

Which was my sin, though it were done before? 

Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run. 
And do run still, though still I do deplore? 

When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 

For I have more. 

Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I have won 

Others to sin, and made my sin their door? 
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun 

A year or two; — but wallow'd in a score? 
When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 

For I have more. 

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; 
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son 

Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore; 
And having done that, thou hast done, 

I fear no more. 

I have the rather mentioned this hymn, for that he caused it to be 
set to a most grave and solemn tune, and to be often sung to the 
organ by the choristers of St. Paul's Church, in his own hearing, 
especially at the evening service; and at his return from his customary 
devotions in that place, did occasionally say to a friend, "The words 
of this hymn have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that 
possessed my soul in my sickness, when I composed it. And, O the 
power of church-music! that harmony added to this hymn has raised 
the affections of my heart, and quickened my graces of zeal and 


gratitude; and I observe that I always return from paying this public 
duty of prayer and praise to God, with an unexpressible tranquillity 
of mind, and a willingness to leave the world." 

After this manner the disciples of our Saviour, and the best of 
Christians in those ages of the church nearest to his time, of?er their 
praises to Almighty God. And the reader of St. Augustine's life 
may there find that towards his dissolution he wept abundantly, that 
the enemies of Christianity had broke in upon them, and profaned 
and ruined their sanctuaries, and because their public hymns and 
lauds were lost out of their churches. And after this manner have 
many devout souls lifted up their hands and offered acceptable sac- 
rifices unto Almighty God, where Dr. Donne offered his, and now 
lies buried. 

But now, O Lord! how is that place become desolate!' 

Before I proceed further, I think fit to inform the reader, that not 
long before his death he caused to be drawn a figure of the body of 
Christ extended upon an anchor, like those which painters draw 
when they would present us with the picture of Christ crucified on 
the cross: his varying no otherwise, than to affix him not to a cross, 
but to an anchor — the emblem of hope; — this he caused to be drawn 
in little, and then many of those figures thus drawn to be engraven 
very small in Heliotropium stones, and set in gold; and of these he 
sent to many of his dearest friends, to be used as seals, or rings, and 
kept as memorials of him, and of his affection to them. 

His dear friends and benefactors. Sir Henry Goodier and Sir 
Robert Drewry, could not be of that number; nor could the Lady 
Magdalen Herbert, the mother of George Herbert, for they had put 
off mortality, and taken possession of the grave before him : but Sir 
Henry Wotton, and Dr. Hall, the then late deceased Bishop of 
Norwich, were; and so were Dr. Duppa, Bishop of Salisbury, and 
Dr. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester — lately deceased, — men in 
whom there was such a commixture of general learning, of natural 
eloquence, and Christian humility, that they deserve a commemora- 
tion by a pen equal to their own, which none have exceeded. 

And in this enumeration of his friends, though many must be 
omitted; yet that man of primitive piety, Mr. George Herbert, may 



not; I mean that George Herbert who was the author of The Temple, 
or Sacred Poems and Ejaculations. A book in which, by declaring 
his own spiritual conflicts, he hath comforted and raised many a 
dejected and discomposed soul and charmed them into sweet and 
quiet thoughts; a book, by the frequent reading whereof, and the 
assistance of that spirit that seemed to inspire the author, the reader 
may attain habits of peace and piety, and all the gifts of the Holy 
Ghost and heaven; and may, by still reading, still keep those sacred 
fires burning upon the altar of so pure a heart, as shall free it from 
the anxieties of this world, and keep it fixed upon things that are 
above. Betwixt this George Herbert and Dr. Donne there was a long 
and dear friendship, made up by such a sympathy of inclinations, 
that they coveted and joyed to be in each other's company; and this 
happy friendship was still maintained by many sacred endearments; 
of which that which foUoweth may be some testimony. 



A Sheaf of Snal(_es used heretofore to be my Seal, which is 
the Crest of our poor family 

Qui prius assuetus scrpentum fake tabellas 

Signare, ha:c nostrx symbola parva domds, 
Adscitus domui Domini — 

Adopted in God's family, and so 

My old coat lost, into new Arms I go. 

The Cross, my Seal in Baptism, spread below, 

Does by that form into an Anchor grow. 

Crosses grow Anchors, bear as thou shouldst do 

Thy Cross, and that Cross grows an Anchor too. 

But he that makes our Crosses Anchors thus. 

Is Christ, who there is crucified for us. 

Yet with this I may my first Serpents hold; — 

God gives new blessings, and yet leaves the old — 

The Serpent, may, as wise, my pattern be; 

My f>oison, as he feeds on dust, that's me. 

And, as he rounds the earth to murder, sure 

He is my death; but on the Cross, my cure, 

Crucify nature then; and then implore 

All grace from him, crucified there before. 


When all is Cross, and that Cross Anchor grown 

This Seal's a Catechism, not a Seal alone. 

Under that litde Seal great gifts I send. 

Both works and prayers, pawns and fruits of a friend. 

Oh! may that Saint that rides on our Great Seal, 

To you that bear his name, large bounty deal. 

John Donne. 

in sacram anchoram piscatoris 


Quod Crux nequibat fixa clavique additi, — 
Tenere Christum scilicet ne ascenderet, 
Tuive Christum — 

Although the Cross could not here Christ detain. 

When nail'd unto 't, but he ascends again; 

Nor yet thy eloquence here keep him still, 

But only whilst thou speak'st — this Anchor will: 

Nor canst thou be content, unless thou to 

This certain Anchor add a Seal; and so 

The water and the earth both unto thee 

Do owe the symbol of their certainty. 

Let the world reel, we and all our's stand sure. 

This holy cable's from all storms secure. 

George Herbert. 

I return to tell the reader that, besides these verses to his dear Mr. 
Herbert, and that hymn that I mentioned to be sung in the choir 
of St. Paul's Church, he did also shorten and beguile many sad hours 
by composing other sacred ditties; and he writ an hymn on his 
death-bed which bears this title: 

March 2 J, i6jo 

Since I am coming to that holy room. 
Where, with thy Choir of Saints, for evermore 

I shall be made thy music, as I come 
I tune my instrument here at the door, 
And, what I must do then, think here before. 

Since my Physicians by their loves are grown 
Cosmographers; and I their map, who lye 

Flat on this bed — 


So, in his purple wrapt, receive my Lord! 

By these his thorns, give me his other Crown: 

And, as to other souls I preach'd thy word, 
Be this my text, my sermon to mine own, 
"That he may raise; therefore the Lord throws down." 

If these fall under the censure of a soul whose too much mixture 
with earth makes it unfit to judge of these high raptures and illumi- 
nations, let him know, that many holy and devout men have thought 
the soul of Prudentius to be most refined, when, not many days be- 
fore his death, "he charged it to present his God each morning and 
evening with a new and spiritual song;" justified by the example of 
King David and the good King Hezekiah, who, upon the renovation 
of his years paid his thankful vows to Almighty God in a royal 
hymn, which he concludes in these words: "The Lord was ready to 
save; therefore I will sing my songs to the stringed instruments all 
the days of my life in the temple of my God." 

The latter part of his life may be said to be a continued study; for 
as he usually preached once a week, if not oftener, so after his sermon 
he never gave his eyes a rest, till he had chosen out a new text, and 
that night cast his sermon into a form, and his text into divisions; 
and the next day betook himself to consult the fathers, and so com- 
mit his meditations to his memory, which was excellent. But upon 
Saturday he usually gave himself and his mind a rest from the weary 
burthen of his week's meditations, and usually spent that day in 
visitation of friends, or some other diversions of his thoughts; and 
would say, "that he gave both his body and mind that refreshment, 
that he might be enabled to do the work of the day following, not 
faintly, but with courage and cheerfulness." 

Nor was his age only so industrious, but in the most unsettled 
days of his youth his bed was not able to detain him beyond the 
hour of four in the morning; and it was no common business that 
drew him out of his chamber till past ten; all which time was 
employed in study; though he took great liberty after it. And if this 
seem strange, it may gain a belief by the visible fruits of his labours; 
some of which remain as testimonies of what is here written: for he 
left the resultance of 1400 authors, most of them abridged and 
analysed with his own hand; he left also six score of his sermons. 


all written with his own hand; also an exact and laborious treatise 
concerning self-murder, called Biathanatos; wherein all the laws 
violated by that act are diligently surveyed, and judiciously censured: 
a treatise written in his younger days, which alone might declare him 
then not only perfect in the civil and canon law but in many other 
such studies and arguments as enter not into the consideration of 
many that labour to be thought great clerks, and pretend to know 
all things. 

Nor were these only found in his study, but all businesses that 
passed of any public consequence, either in this or any of our 
neighixjur nations, he abbreviated either in Latin, or in the language 
of that nation, and kept them by him for useful memorials. So he 
did the copies of divers letters and cases of conscience that had con- 
cerned his friends, with his observations and solutions of them; and 
divers other businesses of importance, all particularly and method- 
ically digested by himself. 

He did prepare to leave the world before life left him, making his 
will when no faculty of his soul was damped or made defective by 
pain or sickness, or he surprised by a sudden apprehension of death: 
but it was made with mature deliberation, expressing himself an 
impartial father, by making his children's portions equal; and a 
lover of his friends, whom he remembered with legacies fitly and 
discreetly chosen and bequeathed. I cannot forbear a nomination of 
some of them; for methinks they be persons that seem to challenge 
a recordation in this place; as namely, to his brother-in-law. Sir 
Thomas Grimes, he gave that striking clock, which he had long 
worn in his pocket; to his dear friend and executor, Dr. King, — late 
Bishop of Chichester — that model of gold of the Synod of Dort, with 
which the States presented him at his last being at the Hague; and 
the two pictures of Padre Paolo and Fulgentio, men of his acquaint- 
ance when he travelled Italy, and of great note in that nation for 
their remarkable learning. — To his ancient friend Dr. Brook, — 
that married him — Master of Trinity College in Cambridge, he gave 
the picture of the Blessed Virgin and Joseph. — To Dr. Winniff, who 
succeeded him in the Deanery, he gave a picture called the Skele- 
ton. — To the succeeding Dean, who was not then known, he gave 
many necessaries of worth, and useful for his house; and also several 


pictures and ornaments for the chapel, with a desire that they might 
be registered, and remain as a legacy to his successors. — To the Earls 
of Dorset and CarUsle he gave several pictures; and so he did to 
many other friends; legacies, given rather to express his affection, 
than to make any addition to their estates: but unto the poor he 
was full of charity, and unto many others, who, by his constant 
and long<ontinued bounty, might entitle themselves to be his 
alms-people: for all these he made provision, and so largely, as, 
having then six children living, might to some appear more than 
proportionable to his estate. I forbear to mention any more, lest 
the reader may think I trespass upon his patience: but I will 
beg his favour, to present him with the beginning and end of his 

"In the name of the blessed and glorious Trinity, Amen, I, John 
Donne, by the mercy of Christ Jesus, and by the calling of the Church 
of England, priest, being at this time in good health and perfect 
understanding, — praised be God therefore — do hereby make my 
last will and testament in manner and form following. 

"First, I give my gracious God an entire sacrifice of body and 
soul, with my most humble thanks for that assurance which his 
blessed Spirit imprints in me now of the salvation of the one, and 
the resurrection of the other; and for that constant and cheerful 
resolution, which the same Spirit hath established in me, to live and 
die in the religion now professed in the Church of England. In 
expectation of that resurrection, I desire my body may be buried — 
in the most private manner that may be — in that place of St. Paul's 
Church, Lx>ndon, that the now residentiaries have at my request 
designed for that purpose, etc. — And this my last will and testa- 
ment, made in the fear of God, — whose mercy I humbly beg, and 
constandy rely upon in Jesus Christ — and in perfect love and 
charity with all the world — whose pardon I ask, from the lowest of 
my servants, to the highest of my superiors — written all with my own 
hand, and my name subscribed to every page, of which there are 
five in number. 

"Sealed December 13, 1630." 

Nor was this blessed sacrifice of charity expressed only at his 


death, but in his life also, by a cheerful and frequent visitation of 
any friend whose mind was dejected, or his fortune necessitous; 
he was inquisitive after the wants of prisoners, and redeemed many 
from prison that lay for their fees or small debts: he was a continual 
giver to poor scholars, both of this and foreign nations. Besides 
what he gave with his own hand, he usually sent a servant, or a 
discreet and trusty friend, to distribute his charity to all the prisons 
in London, at all the festival times of the year, especially at the birth 
and resurrection of our Saviour. He gave an hundred pounds at 
one time to an old friend, whom he had known live plentifully, 
and by a too liberal heart and carelessness became decayed in his 
estate; and when the receiving of it was denied by the gentleman's 
saying, "He wanted not;" for the reader may note, that as there be 
some spirits so generous as to labour to conceal and endure a sad 
poverty, rather than expose themselves to those blushes that attend 
the confession of it; so there be others, to whom nature and grace 
have afforded such sweet and compassionate souls, as to pity and 
prevent the distresses of mankind; — which I have mentioned because 
of Dr. Donne's reply, whose answer was: "I know you want not 
what will sustain nature; for a litde will do that; but my desire 
is, that you, who in the days of your plenty have cheered and raised 
the hearts of so many of your dejected friends, would now receive 
from me, and use it as a cordial for the cheering of your own:" and 
upon these terms it was received. He was an happy reconciler of 
many differences in the families of his friends and kindred, — which 
he never undertook faintly; for such undertakings have usually faint 
effects — and they had such a faith in his judgment and impartiality, 
that he never advised them to any thing in vain. He was, even to 
her death, a most dutiful son to his mother, careful to provide for her 
supportation, of which she had been destitute, but that God raised 
him up to prevent her necessities; who having sucked in the religion 
of the Roman Church with the mother's milk, spent her estate in 
foreign countries, to enjoy a liberty in it, and died in his house but 
three months before him. 

And to the end it may appear how just a steward he was of his 
lord and master's revenue, I have thought fit to let the reader 
know, that after his entrance into his Deanery, as he numbered his 


years, he at the foot of a private account, to which God and his 
angels were only witnesses with him, — computed first his revenue, 
then what was given to the poor, and other pious uses; and lastly, 
what rested for him and his; and having done that, he then blessed 
each year's poor remainder with a thankful prayer; which, for that 
they discover a more than common devotion, the reader shall par- 
take some of them in his own words: 

So all is that remains this year — [1624-5]. 

Deo Opt. Max. benigno largitori, a me, et ab iis quibus hic 4 me 
reservantur, Gloria et gratia in aeternum. Amen. 

Translated thus. 

To God all Good, all Great, the benevolent Bestower, by me and 
by them, for whom by me these sums are laid up, be glory and grace 
ascribed for ever. Amen. 

So that this year [1626] God hath blessed me and mine with: — 

Multiplicatx sunt super nos misericordia: tuae, Domine. 

Translated thus. 

Thy mercies, O Lord! are multiplied upon us. 

Da, Domine, ut quse ex immensa bonitate tua nobis elargiri 
dignatus sis, in quorumcunque manus devenerint, in tuam semper 
cedant gloriam. Amen. 

Translated thus. 

Grant, O Lord! that what out of thine infinite bounty thou hast 
vouchsafed to lavish ufx)n us, into whosoever hands it may devolve, 
may always be improved to thy glory. Amen. 

In fine horum sex annorum manet: — [1628-9]. 

Quid habeo quod non accepi a Domino? Largitur etiam ut qui 
largitus est sua iterum fiant, bono eorum usu; ut quemadmodum nee 
officiis hujus mundi, nee loci in quo me posuit dignitati, nee servis, 
nee egenis, in toto hujus anni curriculo mihi conscius sum me de- 


fuisse: ita et liberi, quibus quae supersunt, supersunt, grato animo ea 
accipiant, et beneficum, authorem recognoscant. Amen. 

Translated thus. 

At the end of these six years remains: — 

What have I, which I have not received from the Lord? He 
bestows, also, to the intent that what he hath bestowed may revert 
to him by the proper use of it: that, as 1 have not consciously been 
wanting to myself during the whole course of the past year, either 
in discharging my secular duties, in retaining the dignity of my 
station, or in my conduct towards my servants and the poor, — so my 
children for whom remains whatever is remaining, may receive it 
with gratitude, and acknowledge the beneficent Giver. Amen. 

But I return from my long digression. 

We left the author sick in Essex, where he was forced to spend 
much of that winter, by reason of his disability to remove from 
that place; and having never, for almost twenty years, omitted 
his personal attendance on his Majesty in that month, in which he 
was to attend and preach to him; nor having ever been left out of 
the roll and number of Lent preachers, and there being then — in 
January 1630 — a report brought to London, or raised there, that Dr. 
Donne was dead; that report gave him occasion to write the follow- 
ing letter to a dear friend : 

"Sir, — This advantage you and my other friends have by my 
frequent fevers, that I am so much the oftener at the gates of heaven; 
and this advantage by the solitude and close imprisonment that they 
reduce me to after, that T am so much the oftener at my prayers, in 
which I shall never leave out your happiness; and I doubt not, among 
his other blessings, God will add some one to you for my prayers. 
A man would almost be content to die, — if there were no other 
benefit in death, — to bear of so much sorrow, and so much good 
testimony from good men, as T — God be blessed for it — did upon 
the report of my death: yet I perceive it went not through all; for 
one writ to me, that some — and he said of my friends — conceived 
that I was not so ill as I pretended, but withdrew myself to live at 


ease, discharged of preaching. It is an unfriendly, and, God knows, 
an ill-grounded interpretation; for I have always been sorrier when 
I could not preach than any could be they could not hear me. It hath 
been my desire, and God may be pleased to grant it, that I might die 
in the pulpit; if not that, yet that I might take my death in the 
pulpit; that is, die the sooner by occasion of those labours. Sir, I hope 
to see you presently after Candlemas; about which time will fall my 
Lent sermon at court, except my Lord Chamberlain believe me to 
be dead, and so leave me out of the roll: but as long as I live, and 
am not speechless, I would not willingly decline that service. I 
have better leisure to write, than you to read; yet I would not will- 
ingly oppress you with too much letter. God so bless you and your 
son, as I wish to 

Your poor friend and servant 
in Christ Jesus, 

J. Donne." 

Before that month ended, he was appointed to preach upon his old 
constant day, the first Friday in Lent : he had notice of it, and had in 
his sickness so prepared for that employment, that as he had long 
thirsted for it, so he resolved his weakness should not hinder his 
journey; he came therefore to London some few days before his 
appointed day of preaching. At his coming thither, many of his 
friends — who with sorrow saw his sickness had left him but so much 
flesh as did only cover his bones — doubted his strength to perform 
that task, and did thereof persuade him from undertaking it, assur- 
ing him however, it was like to shorten his life: but he passionately 
denied their requests, saying "he would not doubt that that God, 
who in so many weaknesses had assisted him with an unexpected 
strength, would now withdraw it in his last employment; professing 
an holy ambition to perform that sacred work." And when, to the 
amazement of some of the beholders, he appeared in the pulpit, 
many of them thought he presented himself not to preach mortifica- 
tion by a living voice, but mortality by a decayed body and a dying 
face. And doubtless many did secretly ask that question in Ezekiel, 
— "Do these bones live? or, can that soul organise that tongue, to 
speak so long time as the sand in that glass will move towards its 


centre, and measure out an hour of this dying man's unspent life? 
Doubtless it cannot." And yet, after some faint pauses in his zealous 
prayer, his strong desires enabled his weak body to discharge his 
memory of his preconceived meditations, which were of dying; the 
text being, "To God the Lord belong the issues from death." Many 
that then saw his tears, and heard his faint and hollow voice, pro- 
fessing they thought the text prophetically chosen, and that Dr. 
Donne had preached his own funeral sermon. 

Being full of joy that God had enabled him to perform this desired 
duty, he hastened to his house; out of which he never moved, till, 
like St. Stephen, "he was carried by devout men to his grave." 

The next day after his sermon, his strength being much wasted, 
and his spirits so spent as indisposed him to business or to talk, a 
friend that had often been a witness of his free and facetious dis- 
course asked him, "Why are you sad?" To whom he replied, with 
a countenance so full of cheerful gravity, as gave testimony of an 
inward tranquillity of mind, and of a soul willing to take a farewell 
of this world; and said, — 

"I am not sad; but most of the night past I have entertained myself 
with many thoughts of several friends that have left me here, and are 
gone to that place from which they shall not return; and that within 
a few days I also shall go hence, and be no more seen. And my 
preparation for this change is become my nightly meditation uf>on 
my bed, which my infirmities have now made resdess to me. But at 
this present time, I was in a serious contemplation of the providence 
and goodness of God to me; to me, who am less than the least of his 
mercies: and looking back upon my life past, I now plainly see it was 
his hand that prevented me from all temporal employment; and that 
it was his will I should never settle nor thrive till I entered into the 
ministry; in which I have now lived almost twenty years — I hope 
to his glory, — and by which, I most humbly thank him, I have been 
enabled to requite most of those friends which showed me kindness 
when my fortune was very low, as God knows it was: and — as it 
hath occasioned the expression of my gratitude I thank God most 
of them have stood in need of my requital. I have lived to be useful 
and comfortable to my good father-in-law. Sir George More, whose 
patience God hath been pleased to exercise with many temporal 


crosses; I have maintained my own mother, whom it hath pleased 
God, after a plentiful fortune in her younger days, to bring to 
great decay in her very old age. I have quieted the consciences of 
many that have groaned under the burthen of a wounded spirit, 
whose prayers I hope are available for me. I cannot plead innocency 
of hfe, especially of my youth; but I am to be judged by a merciful 
God, who is not willing to see what I have done amiss. And though 
of myself I have nothing to present to him but sins and misery, yet 
I know he looks not upon me now as I am of myself, but as I am in 
my Saviour, and hath given me, even at this present time, some testi- 
monies by his Holy Spirit, that I am of the number of his elect: I 
am therefore full of inexpressible joy, and shall die in peace." 

I must here look so far back, as to tell the reader that at his 
first return out of Essex, to preach his last sermon, his old friend 
and physician. Dr. Fox — a man of great worth — came to him to 
consult his health; and that after a sight of him, and some queries 
concerning his distempers, he told him, "That by cordials, and 
drinking milk twenty days together, there was a probability of his 
restoration to health;" but he passionately denied to drink it. Never- 
theless, Dr. Fox, who loved him most entirely, wearied him with 
solicitations, till he yielded to take it for ten days; at the end of 
which time he told Dr. Fox, "He had drunk it more to satisfy him, 
than to recover his health; and that he would not drink it ten days 
longer, upon the best moral assurance of having twenty years added 
to his life; for he loved it not; and was so far from fearing death, 
which to others is the King of Terrors, that he longed for the day 
of dissolution." 

It is observed that a desire of glory or commendation is rooted in 
the very nature of man; and that those of the severest and most 
mortified hves, though they may become so humble as to banish 
self -flattery, and such weeds as naturally grow there; yet they have 
not been able to kill this desire of glory, but that like our radical 
heat, it will both live and die with us; and many think it should do 
so; and we want not sacred examples to justify the desire of having 
our memory to outlive our lives; which I mention, because Dr. 
Donne, by the persuasion of Dr. Fox, easily yielded at this very time 
to have a monument made for him; but Dr. Fox undertook not to 


persuade him how, or what monument it should be; that was left to 
Dr. Donne himself. 

A monument being resolved upon, Dr. Donne sent for a Carver 
to make for him in wood the figure of an urn, giving him directions 
for the compass and height of it; and to bring with it a board, of just 
the height of his body. "These being got, then without delay a 
choice painter was got to be in readiness to draw his picture, which 
was taken as followeth. — Several charcoal fires being first made in 
his large study, he brought with him into that place his winding- 
sheet in his hand, and having put off all his clothes, had this sheet put 
on him, and so tied with knots at his head and feet, and his hands so 
placed as dead bodies are usually fitted, to be shrouded and put into 
their coffin, or grave. Upon this urn he thus stood, with his eyes 
shut, and with so much of the sheet turned aside as might show his 
lean, pale, and deathlike face, which was purposely turned towards 
the east, from whence he expected the second coming of his and our 
Saviour Jesus." In this posture he was drawn at his just height; and 
when the picture was fully finished, he caused it to be set by his 
bed-side, where it continued and became his hourly object till his 
death, and was then given to his dearest friend and executor Dr. 
Henry King, then chief residentiary of St. Paul's, who caused him to 
be thus carved in one entire piece of white marble, as it now stands 
in that church; and by Dr. Donne's own appointment, these words 
were to be affixed to it as an epitaph: 


sac. theol. profess. 

post varia stvdia, qvibus ab annis 

tenerrimis fideliter, nec infeliciter 

instinctv et impvlsv sp. sancti, monitv 

et hortatv 

regis jacobi, ordines sacros amplexvs, 

ann svi jesv, mdcxiv. et sv^ ittatis xlu. 

decanatv hvjvs ecclesiic indvtvs, 

xxvn. novembris, mdcxxi. 

exvtvs morte vltimo die martii, mdcxxxi. 

hic licet in occidvo cinere, aspicit evm 

cvjvs nomen est oriens. 


And now, having brought him through the many labyrinths and 
perplexities of a various life, even to the gates of death and the grave; 
my desire is, he may rest till I have told my reader that I have seen 
many pictures of him, in several habits, and at several ages, and in 
several postures: and I now mention this, because I have seen one 
picture of him, drawn by a curious hand, at his age of eighteen, 
with his sword, and what other adornments might then suit with the 
present fashions of youth and the giddy gaieties of that age; and his 
motto then was — 

How much shall I be changed. 
Before I am changed! 

And if that young and his now dying picture were at this time set 
together every beholder might say, Lxjrd! how much is Dr. Donne 
already changed, before he is changed! And the view of them 
might give my reader occasion to ask himself with some amaze- 
ment, "Lord! how much may I also, that am now in health, be 
changed before I am changed; before this vile, this changeable body 
shall put off mortality!" and therefore to prepare for it. — But this is 
not writ so much for my reader's memento, as to tell him that Dr. 
Donne would often in his private discourses, and often publicly 
in his sermons, mention the many changes both of his body and 
mind; especially of his mind from a vertiginous giddiness; and 
would as often say, "His great and most blessed change was from 
a temporal to a spiritual employment;" in which he was so happy, 
that he accounted the former part of his life to be lost; and the 
beginning of it to be from his first entering into sacred orders, and 
serving his most merciful God at his altar. 

Upon Monday, after the drawing this picture, he took his last 
leave of his beloved study; and, being sensible of his hourly decay, 
retired himself to his bed-chamber; and that week sent at several 
times for many of his most considerable friends, with whom he took 
a solemn and deliberate farewell, commending to their considerations 
some sentences useful for the regulation of their lives; and then dis- 
missed them, as good Jacob did his sons, with a spiritual benediction. 
The Sunday following, he appointed his servants, that if there were 
any business yet undone that concerned him or themselves, it should 
be prepared against Saturday next; for after that day he would not 


mix his thoughts with anything that concerned this world; nor ever 
did; but, as Job, so he "waited for the appointed day of his dissolu- 

And now he was so .happy as to have nothing to do but to die, to 
do which, he stood in need of no longer time; for he had studied it 
long, and to so happy a perfection, that in a former sickness he called 
God to witness* "He was that minute ready to deliver his soul into 
his hands if that minute God would determine his dissolution." 
In that sickness he begged of God the constancy to be preserved in 
that estate for ever; and his patient expectation to have his immortal 
soul disrobed from her garment of mortality, makes me confident 
that he now had a modest assurance that his prayers were then heard, 
and his petition granted. He lay fifteen days earnestly expecting his 
hourly change; and in the last hour of his last day, as his body melted 
away, and vapoured into spirit, his soul having, I verily believe some 
revelation of the beatifical vision, he said, "I were miserable if I 
might not die;" and after those words, closed many periods of his 
faint breath by saying often, "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done." 
His speech, which had long been his ready and faithful servant, left 
him not till the last minute of his life, and then forsook him, not 
to serve another master — for who speaks like him, — but died before 
him; for that it was then become useless to him, that now conversed 
with God on earth, as angels are said to do in heaven, only by 
thoughts and looks. Being speechless, and seeing heaven by that 
illumination by which he saw it, he did, as St. Stephen, "look stead- 
fastly into it, till he saw the Son of Man standing at the right hand of 
God his Father;" and being satisfied with this blessed sight, as his 
soul ascended, and his last breath departed from him, he closed his 
own eyes, and then disjxjsed his hands and body into such a posture 
as required not the least alteration by those that came to shroud 

Thus variable, thus virtuous was the life: thus excellent, thus 
exemplary was the death of this memorable man. 

He was buried in that place of St. Paul's Church, which he had 
appointed for that use some years before his death; and by which 
he passed daily to pay his public devotions to Almighty God — 
' In his Book of Devotions written then. 


who was then served twice a day by a public form of prayer and 
praises in that place: — but he was not buried privately, though he 
desired it; for, beside an unnumbered number of others, many 
persons of nobility, and of eminence for learning, who did love and 
honour him in his life, did show it at his death, by a voluntary and 
sad attendance of his body to the grave, where nothing was so 
remarkable as a public sorrow. 

To which place of his burial some mournful friends repaired, 
and, as Alexander the Great did to the grave of the famous Achilles, 
so they strewed his with an abundance of curious and costly 
flowers; which course, they — who were never yet known — continued 
morning and evening for many days, not ceasing, till the stones, that 
were taken up in that church, to give his body admission into the 
cold earth — now his bed of rest, — were again by the mason's art so 
levelled and firmed as they had been formerly, and his place of burial 
undistinguishable to common view. 

The next day after his burial, some unknown friend, some one of 
the many lovers and admirers of his virtue and learning, writ this 
epitaph with a coal on the wall over his grave: — 

Reader! I am to let thee know. 
Donne's Body only lies below; 
For, could the grave his Soul comprise. 
Earth would be richer than the Skies! 

Nor was this all the honour done to his reverend ashes; for, as 
there be some persons that will not receive a reward for that for 
which God accounts himself a debtor; persons that dare trust God 
with their charity, and without a witness; so there was by some 
grateful unknown friend, that thought Dr. Donne's memory ought 
to be perpetuated, an hundred marks sent to his faithful friends' 
and executors, towards the making of his monument. It was not 
for many years known by whom; but, after the death of Dr. Fox, it 
was known that it was he that sent it; and he lived to see as lively 
a representation of his dead friend as marble can express: a statue 
indeed so like Dr. Donne, that — as his friend Sir Henry Wotton 
hath expressed himself — "It seems to breathe faintly, and posterity 
shall look upon it as a kind of artificial miracle." 
*Dr. King and Dr. Montford. 


He was of stature moderately tall; of a straight and equally-pro- 
portioned body, to which all his words and actions gave an unex- 
pressible addition of comeliness. 

The melancholy and pleasant humour were in him so con- 
tempered, that each gave advantage to the other, and made his 
company one of the delights of mankind. 

His fancy was unimitably high, equalled only by his great wit; 
both being made useful by a commanding judgment. 

His aspect was cheerful, and such as gave a silent testimony of a 
clear knowing soul, and of a conscience at peace with itself. 

His melting eye showed that he had a soft heart, full of noble 
compassion; of too brave a soul to offer injuries, and too much a 
Christian not to pardon them in others. 

He did much contemplate — especially after he entered into his 
sacred calling — the mercies of Almighty God, the immortality of the 
soul, and the joys of heaven: and would often say in a kind of sacred 
ecstasy, — "Blessed be God that he is God, only and divinely like 

He was by nature highly passionate, but more apt to reluct at the 
excesses of it. A great lover of the offices of humanity, and of so 
merciful a spirit, that he never beheld the miseries of mankind with- 
out pity and relief. 

He was earnest and unwearied in the search of knowledge, with 
which his vigorous soul is now satisfied, and employed in a continual 
praise of that God that first breathed it into his active body: that 
body, which once was a temple of the Holy Ghost, and is now 
become a small quantity of Christian dust: — 

But I shall see it re-animated. 

Feb. 15, 1639. I. W, 



"For the life of that great example of holiness, Mr. George Herbert, I 
profess it to be so far a free-will offering, that it was writ chiefly to please 
myself, but yet not without some respect to posterity: for though he was 
not a man that the next age can forget, yet many of his particular acts 
and virtues might have been neglected, or lost, if I had not collected and 
presented them to the imitation of those that shall succeed us: for I 
humbly conceive writing to be both a safer and truer preserver of men's 
virtuous actions than tradition; especially as it is managed in this age. 
And I am also to tell the Reader, that though this Life of Mr. Herbert 
was not by me writ in haste, yet I intended it a review before it should 
be made public; but that was not allowed me, by reason of my absence 
from London when it was printing; so that the Reader may find in it 
some mistakes, some double expressions, and some not very proper, and 
some that might have been contracted, and some faults that are not 
justly chargeable upon me, but the printer; and yet I hope none so great, 
as may not, by this confession, purchase pardon from a good-natured 
Reader." — From Izaak Walton's Introduction to the "Lives." 


GEORGE HERBERT was born the third day of April, in the 
- year of our redemption 1593. The place of his birth was near 
to the town of Montgomery, and in that castle that did then 
bear the name of that town and county; that castle was then a place 
of state and strength, and had been successively happy in the family 
of the Herberts, who had long possessed it; and with it, a plentiful 
estate, and hearts as liberal to their poor neighbours. A family that 
hath been blessed with men of remarkable wisdom, and a willingness 
to serve their country, and, indeed, to do good to all mankind; for 
which they are eminent: But alas! this family did in the late rebellion 
suffer extremely in their estates; and the heirs of that casde saw it 
laid level with that earth that was too good to bury those wretches 
that were the cause of it. 

The father of our George was Richard Herbert, the son of Edward 
Herbert, Knight, the son of Richard Herbert, Knight, the son of the 
famous Sir Richard Herbert of Colebrook, in the county of Mon- 
mouth, Banneret, who was the youngest brother of that memorable 
William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, that lived in the reign of our 
King Edward the Fourth. 

His mother was Magdalen Newport, the youngest daughter of 
Sir Richard, and sister to Sir Francis Newport of High Arkall, in 
the county of Salop, Knight, and grandfather of Francis Lord New- 
port, now Controller of his Majesty's Household. A family that for 
their loyalty have suffered much in their estates, and seen the ruin 
of that excellent structure where their ancestors have long lived, and 
been memorable for their hospitality. 

This mother of George Herbert — of whose person, and wisdom, 
and virtue, I intend to give a true account in a seasonable place — was 
the happy mother of seven sons and three daughters, which she 



would often say was Job's number, and Job's distribution; and as 
often bless God, that they were neither defective in their shapes nor 
in their reason; and very often reprove them that did not praise God 
for so great a blessing. I shall give the reader a short account of their 
names, and not say much of their fortunes. 

Edward, the eldest, was first made Knight of the Bath, at that 
glorious time of our late Prince Henry's being installed Knight of 
the Garter; and after many years' useful travel, and the attainment 
of many languages, he was by King James sent ambassador resident 
to the then French king, Lewis the Thirteenth. There he continued 
about two years; but he could not subject himself to a compliance 
with the humours of the Duke de Luisens, who was then the great 
and powerful favourite at court: so that upon a complaint to our 
King, he was called back into England in some displeasure; but at 
his return he gave such an honourable account of his employment, 
and so justified his comportment to the Duke and all the court, that 
he was suddenly sent back upon the same embassy, from which he 
returned in the beginning of the reign of our good King Charles the 
First, who made him first Baron of Castleisland, and not long after 
of Cherbury in the county of Salop. He was a man of great learning 
and reason, as appears by his printed book De Veritate, and by his 
History of the Reign of King Henry the Eighth, and by several 
other tracts. 

The second and third brothers were Richard and William, who 
ventured their lives to purchase honour in the wars of the Low 
Countries, and died officers in that employment. Charles was the 
fourth, and died fellow of New College in Oxford. Henry was the 
sixth, who became a menial servant to the crown in the days of 
King James, and hath continued to be so for fifty years; during all 
which time he hath been Master of the Revels, a place that requires 
a diligent wisdom, with which God hath blessed him. The seventh 
son was Thomas, who, being made captain of a ship in that fleet 
with which Sir Robert Mansell was sent against Algiers, did there 
show a fortunate and true English valour. Of the three sisters I need 
not say more than that they were all married to persons of worth and 
plentiful fortunes; and lived to be examples of virtue, and to do 
good in their generations. 


I now come to give my intended account of George, who was the 
fifth of those seven brothers. 

George Herbert spent much of his childhood in a sweet content 
under the eye and care of his prudent mother, and the tuition of a 
chaplain, or tutor to him and two of his brothers, in her own family, 
— for she was then a widow, — where he continued till about the age 
of twelve years; and being at that time well instructed in the rules 
of grammar, he was not long after commended to the care of Dr. 
Neale, who was then Dean of Westminster; and by him to the care 
of Mr. Ireland, who was then chief master of that school; where the 
beauties of his pretty behaviour and wit shined, and became so emi- 
nent and lovely in this his innocent age, that he seemed to be 
marked out for piety, and to become the care of heaven, and of a 
particular good angel to guard and guide him. And thus he con- 
tinued in that school, till he came to be perfect in the learned 
languages, and especially in the Greek tongue, in which he after 
proved an excellent critic. 

About the age of fifteen — he being then a King's scholar — he 
was elected out of that school for Trinity College in Cambridge, to 
which place he was transplanted about the year 1608; and his pru- 
dent mother, well knowing that he might easily lose or lessen that 
virtue and innocence which her advice and example had planted 
in his mind, did therefore procure the generous and liberal Dr. 
Nevil, who was then Dean of Canterbury, and master of that Col- 
lege, to take him into his particular care, and provide him a tutor; 
which he did most gladly undertake, for he knew the excellencies 
of his mother, and how to value such a friendship. 

This was the method of his education, till he was settled in Cam- 
bridge; where we will leave him in his study, till I have paid my 
promised account of his excellent mother; and I will endeavour to 
make it short. 

I have told her birth, her marriage, and the number of her chil- 
dren, and have given some short account of them. I shall next tell 
the reader that her husband died when our George was about the 
age of four years: I am next to tell, that she continued twelve years 
a widow; that she then married happily to a noble gentleman, the 
brother and heir of the Lord Danvers, Earl of Danby, who did highly 


value both her person and the most excellent endowments of her 

In this time of her widowhood, she being desirous to give Edward 
her eldest son, such advantages of learning, and other education, as 
might suit his birth and fortune, and thereby make him the more 
fit for the service of his country, did, at his being of a fit age, remove 
from Montgomery Castle with him, and some of her younger sons, 
to Oxford; and having entered Edward into Queen's College, and 
provided him a fit tutor, she commended him to his care, yet she 
continued there with him, and still kept him in a moderate awe of 
herself, and so much under her own eye, as to see and converse 
with him daily: but she managed this p)ower over him without any 
such rigid sourness as might make her company a torment to her 
child ; but with such a sweetness and compliance with the recreations 
and pleasures of youth, as did incline him willingly to spend much of 
his time in the company of his dear and careful mother; which was 
to her great content: for she would often say, "That as our bodies 
take a nourishment suitable to the meat on which we feed; so our 
souls do as insensibly take in vice by the example or conversation 
with wicked company:" and would therefore as often say, "That 
ignorance of vice was the best preservation of virtue; and that the 
very knowledge of wickedness was as tinder to inflame and kindle 
sin and keep it burning." For these reasons she endeared him to her 
own company, and continued with him in Oxford four years; in 
which time her great and harmless wit, her cheerful gravity, and 
her obliging behaviour, gained her an acquaintance and friendship 
with most of any eminent worth or learning that were at that time 
in or near that university, and particularly with Mr. John Donne, 
who then came accidentally to that place, in this time of her being 
there. It was that John Donne, who was after Dr. Donne, and Dean 
of St. Paul's, London: and he, at his leaving Oxford, writ and left 
there, in verse, a character of the beauties of her body and mind: of 
the first he says. 

No spring nor summer-beauty has such grace, 
As I have seen in an autumnal face. 

Of the latter he says, 


In all her words to every hearer fit. 
You may at revels, or at council sit. 

The rest of her character may be read in his printed poems, in that 
elegy which bears the name of "The Autumnal Beauty." For both 
he and she were then past the meridian of man's life. 

This amity, begun at this time and place, was not an amity that 
polluted their souls; but an amity made up of a chain of suitable 
incHnations and virtues; an amity like that of St. Chrysostom's to 
his dear and virtuous Olympias; whom, in his letters, he calls his 
saint: or an amity, indeed, more like that of St. Hierome to his 
Paula; whose affection to her was such, that he turned poet in his 
old age, and then made her epitaph ; wishing all his body were turned 
into tongues that he might declare her just praises to posterity. And 
this amity betwixt her and Mr. Donne was begun in a happy time for 
him, he being then near to the fortieth year of his age, — which was 
some years before he entered into sacred orders; — a time when his 
necessities needed a daily supply for the support of his wife, seven 
children, and a family. And in this time she proved one of his 
most bountiful benefactors; and he as grateful an acknowledger of it. 
You may take one testimony for what I have said of these two 
worthy persons, from this following letter and sonnet: — 


"Your favours to me are everywhere: I use them and have them. 
I enjoy them at London, and leave them there; and yet find them 
at Mitcham. Such riddles as these become things inexpressible; and 
such is your goodness. I was almost sorry to find your servant here 
this day, because I was loth to have any witness of my not coming 
home last night, and indeed of my coming this morning. But my 
not coming was excusable, because earnest business detained me; 
and my coming this day is by the example of your St. Mary Mag- 
dalen, who rose early upon Sunday to seek that which she loved 
most; and so did I. And, from her and myself, I return such thanks 
as are due to one to whom we owe all the good opinion that they, 
whom we need most, have of us. By this messenger, and on this 
good day, I commit the enclosed holy hymns and sonnets — which 
for the matter, not the workmanship, have yet escaped the fir 


to your judgment, and to your protection too, if you think them 
worthy of it; and I have appointed this inclosed sonnet to usher 
them to your happy hand. 

Your unworthiest servant, 
Unless your accepting him to be so 
have mended him, 
MiTCHAM, Jo. Donne." 

July II, 1607. 

To the Lady Magdalen Herbert: 
Of St. Mary Magdalen 

Her of your name, whose fair inheritance 

Bethina was, and jointure Magdalo, 
An active faith so highly did advance. 

That she once knew more than the Church did know, 
The Resurrection! so much good there is 

Delivered of her, that some Fathers be 
Loth to believe one woman could do this. 

But think these Magdalens were two or three. 
Increase their number, Lady, and their fame: 

To their devotion add your innocence: 
Take so much of th* example, as of the name; 

The latter half; and in some recomf)ense 
That they did harbour Christ himself, a guest. 

Harbour these Hymns, to his dear name addrest. 


These hymns are now lost to us; but doubtless they were such as 
they two now sing in heaven. 

There might be more demonstrations of the friendship, and the 
many sacred endearments betwixt these two excellent persons, — for 
I have many of their letters in my hand, — and much more might be 
said of her great prudence and piety; but my design was not to 
write hers, but the life of her son; and therefore I shall only tell my 
reader, that about that very day twenty years that this letter was 
dated and sent her, I saw and heard this Mr. John Donne — who was 
then Dean of St. Paul's — weep, and preach her funeral sermon, in 
the Parish Church of Chelsea, near London, where she now rests in 
her quiet grave: and where we must now leave her, and return to 
her son George, whom we left in his study in Cambridge. 


And in Cambridge we may find our George Herbert's behaviour 
to be such, that we may conclude he consecrated the first-fruits of his 
early age to virtue, and a serious study of learning. And that he did 
so, this following letter and sonnet, which were, in the first year of 
his going to Cambridge, sent his dear mother for a New Year's gift, 
may appear to be some testimony : — 

". . . But I fear the heat of my late ague hath dried up those 
springs by which scholars say the Muses use to take up their habita- 
tions. However, I need not their help to reprove the vanity of those 
many love-poems that are daily writ and consecrated to Venus; nor 
to bewail that so few are writ that look towards God and heaven. 
For my own part, my meaning — dear mother — is, in these sonnets, 
to declare my resolution to be, that my poor abiUties in poetry shall 
be all and ever consecrated to God's glory: and I beg you to receive 
this as one testimony." 

My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, 

Wherewith whole shoals of Martyrs once did burn, 

Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry 
Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn? 
Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and lays 

Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love 

Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise 
As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove 
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight? 

Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the same, 

Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name? 
Why doth that (ire, which by thy power and might 

Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose 

Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse? 
Sure, Lord, there is enough in thee to dry 

Oceans of ink; for as the Deluge did 

Cover the Earth, so doth thy Majesty; 
Each cloud distils thy praise, and doth forbid 
Poets to turn it to another use. 

Roses and lilies speak Thee; and to make 

A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse. 
Why should I women's eyes for crystal take? 
Such poor invention burns in their low mind 

Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go 

To praise, and on thee, Lx)rd, some ink bestow. 


Open the bones, and you shall nothing find 
In the best face but filth; when Lord, in Thee 
The beauty lies in the discovery. 

G. H. 

This was his resolution at the sending this letter to his dear mother, 
about which time he was in the seventeenth year of his age; and as 
he grew older, so he grew in learning, and more and more in favour 
both with God and man: insomuch that, in this morning of that 
short day of his life, he seemed to be marked out for virtue, and to 
become the care of Heaven; for God still kept his soul in so holy 
a frame, that he may, and ought to be a pattern of virtue to all 
posterity, and especially to his brethren of the clergy, of which the 
reader may expect a more exact account in what will follow. 

I need not declare that he was a strict student, because, that he 
was so, there will be many testimonies in the future part of his life. 
I shall therefore only tell, that he was made Minor Fellow in the 
year 1609, Bachelor of Arts in the year 161 1 ; Major Fellow of the 
College, March 15th, 1615: and that in that year he was also made 
Master of Arts, he being then in the twenty-second year of his age; 
during all which time, all, or the greatest diversion from his study, 
was the practice of music, in which he became a great master; and 
of which he would say, "That it did relieve his drooping spirits, 
compose his distracted thoughts, and raised his weary soul so far 
above earth, that it gave him an earnest of the joys of heaven, before 
he possessed them." And it may be noted, that from his first entrance 
into the college, the generous Dr. Nevil was a cherisher of his studies, 
and such a lover of his person, his behaviour, and the excellent 
endowments of his mind, that he took him often into his own com- 
pany; by which he confirmed his native gentleness: and if during 
his time he expressed any error, it was that he kept himself too much 
retired, and at too great a distance with all his inferiors; and his 
clothes seemed to prove that he put too great a value on his parts 
and parentage. 

This may be some account of his disposition, and of tfie employ- 
ment of his time till he was Master of Arts, which was anno 1615, 
and in the year 1619 he was chosen Orator for the University. His 
two precedent Orators were Sir Robert Naunton and Sir Francis 


Nediersole. The first was not long after made Secretary of State, 
and Sir Francis, not very long after his being Orator, was made 
secretary to the Lady EHzabeth, Queen of Bohemia. In this place o£ 
Orator our George Herbert continued eight years; and managed it 
with as becoming and grave a gaiety as any had ever before or since 
his time. For "he had acquired great learning, and was blessed with 
a high fancy, a civil and sharp wit; and with a natural elegance, both 
in his behaviour, his tongue, and his pen." Of all which there might 
be very many particular evidences; but I will limit myself to the 
mention of but three. 

And the first notable occasion of showing his fitness for this em- 
ployment of Orator was manifested in a letter to King James, upon 
the occasion of his sending that university his book called Basilicon 
Down; and their Orator was to acknowledge this great honour, 
and return their gratitude to his Majesty for such a condescension; at 
the close of which letter he writ. 

Quid Vaticanam Bodleianamque objicis, hospest 
Unicus est nobis Bibliotheca Uber. 

This letter was writ in such excellent Latin, was so full of conceits, 
and all the expressions so suited to the genius of the King, that he 
inquired the Orator's name, and then asked William, Earl of Pem- 
broke, if he knew him? whose answer was, "That he knew him 
very well, and that he was his kinsman; but he loved him more for 
his learning and virtue than for that he was of his name and family." 
At which answer the King smiled, and asked the Earl leave that 
he might love him too, for he took him to be the jewel of that 

The next occasion he had and took to show his great abilities was, 
with them, to show also his great affection to that Church in which 
he received his baptism, and of which he professed himself a member; 
and the occasion was this: There was one Andrew Melvin, a 
minister of the Scotch Church, and Rector of St. Andrew's; who, 
by a long and constant converse with a discontented part of that 
clergy which opposed episcopacy, became at last to be a chief leader 
of that faction; and had proudly appeared to be so to King James, 
when he was but King of that nation, who, the second year after 


his coronation in England, convened a part of the bishops, and other 
learned divines of his Church, to attend him at Hampton Court, in 
order to a friendly conference with some dissenting brethren, both 
of this and the Church of Scotland: of which Scotch party Andrew 
Melvin was one; and he being a man of learning, and inchned to 
satirical poetry, had scattered many malicious, bitter verses against 
our Liturgy, our ceremonies, and our Church government; which 
were by some of that party so magnified for the wit, that they were 
therefore brought into Westminster School, where Mr. George 
Herbert, then, and often after, made such answers to them, and 
such reflections on him and his Kirk, as might unbeguile any man 
that was not too deeply pre-engaged in such a quarrel. But to return 
to Mr. Melvin at Hampton Court conference: he there appeared 
to be a man of an unruly wit, of a strange confidence, of so furious 
a zeal, and of so ungoverned passions, that his insolence to the King, 
and others at this conference, lost him both his Rectorship of St. 
Andrew's and his Uberty too; for his former verses, and his present 
reproaches there used against the Church and State, caused him to 
be committed prisoner to the Tower of London; where he remained 
very angry for three years. At which time of his commitment he 
found the Lady Arabella an innocent prisoner there; and he pleased 
himself much in sending, the next day after his commitment, these 
two verses to the good lady; which I will underwrite, because they 
may give the reader a taste of his others, which were like these: 

Casua tibi mecum est communis, carceris, Ara- 
Bella, tibi causa est, Araque sacra mihi. 

I shall not trouble my reader with an account of his enlargement 
from that prison, or his death; but tell him Mr. Herbert's verses 
were thought so worthy to be preserved, that Dr. Dufjort, the 
learned Dean of Peterborough, hath lately collected and caused 
many of them to be printed, as an honourable memorial of his friend 
Mr. George Herbert, and the cause he undertook. 

And in order to my third and last observation of his great abilities, 
it will be needful to declare, that about this time King James came 
very often to hunt at Newmarket and Royston, and was almost as 
often invited to Cambridge, where his entertainment was comedies. 


suited to his pleasant humour; and where Mr. George Herbert was 
to welcome him with gratulations, and the applauses of an Orator; 
which he always performed so well, that he still grew more into 
the King's favour, insomuch that he had a particular appointment 
to attend his Majesty at Royston; where, after a discourse with him, 
his Majesty declared to his kinsman, the Earl of Pembroke, that he 
found the Orator's learning and wisdom much above his age or wit. 
The year following, the King appointed to end his progress at 
Cambridge, and to stay there certain days; at which time he was 
attended by the great secretary of nature and all learning. Sir Francis 
Bacon, Lord Verulam, and by the ever-memorable and learned Dr. 
Andrews, Bishop of Winchester, both which did at that time begin 
a desired friendship with our Orator. Upon whom, the first put such 
a value on his judgment, that he usually desired his approbation 
before he would expose any of his books to be printed; and thought 
him so worthy of his friendship, that having translated many of 
the Prophet David's Psalms into English verse, he made George 
Herbert his patron, by a public dedication of them to him, as the 
best judge of divine poetry. And for the learned Bishop, it is 
observable, that at that time there fell to be a modest debate betwixt 
them two about predestination, and sanctity of life; of both of which 
the Orator did, not long after, send the Bishop some safe and 
useful aphorisms, in a long letter, written in Greek; which letter 
was so remarkable for the language and reason of it, that, after 
the reading of it, the Bishop put it into his bosom, and did often 
show it to many scholars, both of this and foreign nations; but did 
always return it back to the place where he first lodged it, and 
continued it so near his heart till the last day of his life. 

To this I might add the long and entire friendship betwixt him 
and Sir Henry Wotton, and Dr. Donne; but I have promised to 
contract myself, and shall therefore only add one testimony to what 
is also mentioned in the life of Dr. Donne; namely, that a little 
before his death he caused many seals to be made, and in them to 
be engraven the figure of Christ, crucified on an anchor, — the emblem 
of hof)e, — and of which Dr. Donne would often say, "Crux mihi 
anchora." — These seals he gave or sent to most of those friends on 
which he put a value; and, at Mr. Herbert's death, these verses were 


found wrapt up with that seal, which was by the Doctor given to 

When my dear friend could write no more, 

He gave this Seal and so gave o'er. 

When winds and waves rise highest I am sure, 
This Anchor keeps my faith, that me, secure. 

At this time of being Orator, he had learned to understand the 
Italian, Spanish, and French tongues very perfectly: hoping that as 
his predecessors, so he might in time attain the place of a Secretary 
of State, he being at that time very high in the King's favour, and 
not meanly valued and loved by the most eminent and most power- 
ful of the court nobility. This, and the love of a court conversation, 
mixed with a laudable ambition to be something more than he then 
was, drew him often from Cambridge, to attend the King whereso- 
ever the court was, who then gave him a sinecure, which fell into 
his Majesty's disposal, I think, by the death of the Bishop of St. 
.\saph. It was the same that Queen Elizabeth had formerly given 
to her favourite Sir Philip Sidney, and valued to be worth an hundred 
and twenty pounds per annum. With this, and his annuity, and 
the advantage of his college, and of his Oratorship, he enjoyed his 
genteel humour for clothes, and court-like company, and seldom 
looked towards Cambridge, unless the King were there, but then 
he never failed; and, at other times, left the manage of his Orator's 
place to his learned friend, Mr. Herbert Thorndike, who is now 
Prebend of Westminster. 

I may not omit to tell, that he had often designed to leave the 
university, and decline all study, which he thought did impair his 
health; for he had a body apt to a consumption, and to fevers, and 
other infirmities, which he judged were increased by his studies; for 
he would often say, "He had too thoughtful a wit; a wit like a 
penknife in too narrow a sheath, too sharp for his body." But his 
mother would by no means allow him to leave the university, or to 
travel; and though he inclined very much to both, yet he would by 
no means satisfy his own desires at so dear a rate, as to prove an 
undutiful son to so affectionate a mother; but did always submit to 
her wisdom. And what I have now said may partly appear in a 


copy of verses in his printed poems; 'tis one of those that bear the 
title of Affliction; and it appears to be a pious reflection on God's 
providence, and some passages of his Ufe, in which he says, — 

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took 

The way that takes the town: 
Thou didst betray me to a hngering book, 

And wrapt me in a gown: 
I was entangled in a world of strife, 
Before I had the power to change my life. 

Yet, for I threaten'd oft the siege to raise. 

Not simpering all mine age; 
Thou often didst with academic praise 

Melt and dissolve my rage: 
I took the sweeten'd pill, till I came where 
I could not go away, nor persevere. 

Yet, lest perchance I should too happy be 

In my unhappiness. 
Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me 

Into more sicknesses. 
Thus doth thy p)ower cross-bias me, not making 
Thine own gifts good, yet me from my ways taking. 

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me 

None of my books will show. 
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree. 

For then sure I should grow 
To fruit or shade, at least some bird would trust 
Her household with me, and I would be just. 

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek. 

In weakness must be stout. 
Well, I will change my service, and go seek 

Some other master out; 
Ah, my dear God! though I am clean forgot. 
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not. 

G. H. 

In this time of Mr. Herbert's attendance and expectation of some 
good occasion to remove from Cambridge to court, God, in whom 
there is an unseen chain of causes, did in a short time put an end 


to the lives of two of his most obliging and most powerful friends, 
Lodowick Duke of Richmond, and James Marquis of Hamilton; and 
not long after him King James died also, and with them all Mr. 
Herbert's court hopes: so that he presently betook himself to a retreat 
from London, to a friend in Kent, where he lived very privately, 
and was such a lover of solitariness, as was judged to impair his 
health more than his study had done. In this time of retirement he 
had many conflicts with himself, whether he should return to the 
painted pleasures of a court life, or betake himself to a study of 
divinity, and enter into sacred orders, to which his mother had 
often persuaded him. These were such conflicts as they only can 
know that have endured them; for ambitious desires, and the out- 
ward glory of this world, are not easily laid aside; but at last God 
inclined him to put on a resolution to serve at his altar. 

He did, at his return to London, acquaint a court-friend with his 
resolution to enter into sacred orders, who persuaded him to alter 
it, as too mean an employment, and too much below his birth, and 
the excellent abilities and endowments of his mind. To whom he 
replied, "It hath been formerly judged that the domestic servants 
of the King of Heaven should be of the noblest families on earth. 
And though the iniquity of the late times have made clergymen 
meanly valued, and the sacred name of priest contemptible; yet I 
will labour to make it honourable, by consecrating all my learning, 
and all my p)oor abilities to advance the glory of that God that gave 
them; knowing that I can never do too much for him, that hath 
done so much for me as to make me a Christian. And I will labour 
to be like my Saviour, by making humility lovely in the eyes of all 
men, and by following the merciful and meek example of my dear 

This was then his resolution; and the God of constancy, who in- 
tended him for a great example of virtue, continued him in it, for 
within that year he was made deacon, but the day when, or by 
whom, I cannot learn; but that he was about that time made deacon 
is most certain; for I find by the records of Lincoln, that he was 
made Prebend of Layton Ecclesia, in the diocese of Lincoln, July 
15th, 1626, and that this Prebend was given him by John, then Lord 


Bishop of that see. And now he had a fit occasion to show that 
piety and bounty that was derived from his generous mother, and 
his other memorable ancestors, and the occasion was this. 

This Layton Ecclesia is a village near to Spalden, in the county 
of Huntingdon, and the greatest part of the parish church was fallen 
down, and that of it which stood was so decayed, so little, and so 
useless, that the parishioners could not meet to {perform their duty 
to God in public prayer and praises; and thus it had been for almost 
twenty years, in which time there had been some faint endeavours 
for a public collection to enable the parishioners to rebuild it; but 
with no success, till Mr. Herbert undertook it; and he, by his own, 
and the contribution of many of his kindred, and other noble friends, 
undertook the re-edification of it; and made it so much his whole 
business, that he became restless till he saw it finished as it now 
stands; being for the workmanship, a costly mosaic; for the form, 
an exact cross; and for the decency and beauty, I am assured, it is 
the most remarkable parish church that this nation affords. He 
lived to see it so wainscotted as to be exceeded by none, and, by 
his order, the reading pew and pulpit were a little distance from 
each other, and both of an equal height; for he would often say, 
"They should neither have a precedency or priority of the other; but 
that prayer and preaching, being equally useful, might agree like 
brethren, and have an equal honour and estimation." 

Before I proceed further, I must look back to the time of Mr. 
Herbert's being made Prebend, and tell the reader, that not long 
after, his mother being informed of his intentions to rebuild that 
church, and apprehending the great trouble and charge that he was 
Uke to draw upon himself, his relations and friends, before it could 
be finished, sent for him from London to Chelsea, — where she then 
dwelt, — and at his coming, said, "George, I sent for you, to persuade 
you to commit simony, by giving your patron as good a gift as he 
has given to you; namely, that you give him back his prebend; for, 
George, it is not for your weak body, and empty purse, to undertake 
to build churches." Of which, he desired he might have a day's time 
to consider, and then make her an answer. And at his return to her 
the next day, when he had first desired her blessing, and she given 


it him, his next request was, "That she would, at the age of thirty- 
three years, allow him to become an undutiful son; for he had made 
a vow to God, that, if he were able, he would rebuild that church." 
And then showed her such reasons for his resolution, that she 
presently subscribed to be one of his benefactors; and undertook to 
soUcit William Earl of Pembroke to become another, who subscribed 
for fifty pounds; and not long after, by a witty and persuasive letter 
from Mr. Herbert, made it fifty pounds more. And in this nomina- 
tion of some of his benefactors, James Duke of Lenox, and his 
brother, Sir Henry Herbert, ought to be remembered; as also the 
bounty of Mr. Nicholas Farrer, and Mr. Arthur Woodnot: the one 
a gentleman in the neighbourhood of Layton, and the other a gold- 
smith in Foster Lane, London, ought not to be forgotten: for the 
memory of such men ought to outlive their lives. Of Mr. Farrer 
I shall hereafter give an account in a more seasonable place; but 
before I proceed further, I will give this short account of Mr. Arthur 

He was a man that had considered overgrown estates do often 
require more care and watchfulness to preserve than get them, and 
considered that there be many discontents that riches cure not; and 
did therefore set limits to himself, as to desire of wealth. And having 
attained so much as to be able to show some mercy to the poor, and 
preserve a competence for himself, he dedicated the remaining part 
of his life to the service of God, and to be useful to his friends; and 
he proved to be so to Mr. Herbert; for besides his own bounty, he 
collected and returned most of the money that was paid for the 
rebuilding of that church; he kept all the account of the charges, and 
would often go down to state them, and see all the workmen paid. 
When I have said that this good man was a useful friend to Mr. 
Herbert's father, and to his mother, and continued to be so to him, 
till he closed his eyes on his death-bed, I will forbear to say more, 
till I have the next fair occasion to mention the holy friendship that 
was betwixt him and Mr. Herbert. From whom Mr. Woodnot 
carried to his mother this following letter, and delivered it to her in 
a sickness, which was not long before that which proved to be her 
last: — 


A Letter of Mr. George Herbert to his mother, in her sicf^ness. 


"At my last parting from you, I was the better content, because 
I was in hope I should myself carry all sickness out of your family : 
but since I know I did not, and that your share continues, or rather 
increaseth, I wish earnestly that I were again with you; and would 
quickly make good my wish, but that my employment does fix me 
here, it being now but a month to our commencement : wherein my 
absence, by how much it naturally augmenteth suspicion, by so much 
shall it make my prayers the more constant and the more earnest 
for you to the God of all consolation. In the meantime, I beseech 
you to be cheerful, and comfort yourself in the God of all comfort, 
who is not willing to behold any sorrow but for sin. — What hath 
affliction grievous in it more than for a moment? or why should 
our afflictions here have so much power or boldness as to oppose the 
hope of our joys hereafter? Madam, as the earth is but a point in 
respect of the heavens, so are earthly troubles compared to heavenly 
joys; therefore, if either age or sickness lead you to those joys, 
consider what advantage you have over youth and health, who are 
now so near those true comforts. Your last letter gave me earthly 
preferment, and I hope kept heavenly for yourself: but would you 
divide and choose too? Our college customs allow not that: and 
I should account myself most happy, if I might change with you; 
for I have always observed the thread of life to be like other threads 
or skeins of silk, full of snarles and incumbrances. Happy is he 
whose bottom is wound up, and laid ready for work in the New 
Jerusalem. For myself, dear mother, I always feared sickness more 
than death, because sickness hath made me unable to perform those 
offices for which I came into the world, and must yet be kept in it; 
but you are freed from that fear, who have already abundantly dis- 
charged that part, having both ordered your family and so brought 
up your children, that they have attained to the years of discretion, 
and competent maintenance. So that now, if they do not well, the 
fault cannot be charged on you, whose example and care of them 
will justify you both to the world and your own conscience; inso- 


much that, whether you turn your thoughts on the life past, or on 
the joys that are to come, you have strong preservatives against all 
disquiet. And for temporal afflictions, I beseech you consider, all 
that can happen to you are either afflictions of estate, or body, or 
mind. For those of estate, of what poor regard ought they to be? 
since, if we had riches, we are commanded to give them away: so 
that the best use of them is having, not to have them. But perhaps, 
being above the common people, our credit and estimation calls on 
us to live in a more splendid fashion: but, O God! how easily is 
that answered, when we consider that the blessings in the holy 
scripture are never given to the rich, but to the poor. I never find 
'Blessed be the rich,' or 'Blessed be the noble'; but 'Blessed be 
the meek,' and 'Blessed be the poor,' and 'Blessed be the mourners, 
for they shall be comforted.' And yet, O God! most carry them- 
selves so as if they not only not desired, bu' even feared to be 
blessed. And for afflictions of the body, dear madam, remember the 
holy martyrs of God, how they have been burned by thousands, and 
have endured such other tortures, as the very mention of them might 
beget amazement; but their fiery trials have had an end; and yours — 
which, praised be God, are less — are not like to continue long. I 
beseech you, let such thoughts as these moderate your present fear 
and sorrow; and know that if any of yours should prove a Goliah- 
like trouble, yet you may say with David, 'That God, who hath 
delivered me out of the paws of the lion and bear, will also deliver 
me out of the hands of this uncircumcised Philistine.' Lasdy, for 
those afflictions of the soul; consider that God intends that to be as 
a sacred temple for himself to dwell in, and will not allow any room 
there for such an inmate as grief; or allow that any sadness shall be 
his competitor. And, above all, if any care of future things molest 
you, remember those admirable words of the Psalmist: 'Cast thy 
care on the Lord, and he shall nourish thee.' ' To which join that of 
St. Peter, 'Casting all your care on the Lord, for he careth for you.' * 
What an admirable thing is this, that God puts his shoulder to our 
burden, and entertains our care for us, that we may the more quietly 
intend his service! To conclude, let me commend only one place 
more to you : Philipp. iv. 4. St. Paul saith there, 'Rejoice in the Lord 

• Psalm Iv. 22. ' I Peter v. 7. 


always: and again I say, Rejoice.* He doubles it, to take away the 
scruple of those that might say. What, shall we rejoice in afflic- 
tions? Yes, I say again, rejoice; so that it is not left to us to rejoice, 
or not rejoice; but, whatsoever befalls us, we must always, at all 
times, rejoice in the Lord, who taketh care for us. And it follows in 
the next verses: 'Let your moderation appear to all men: The Lord 
is at hand: Be careful for nothing.' What can be said more comfort- 
ably? Trouble not yourselves; God is at hand to deliver us from all, 
or in all. Dear madam, pardon my boldness, and accept the good 

meaning of 

Your most obedient son, 

Trin. Coll., George Herbert." 

May 25/A, 1622. 

About the year 1629, and the thirty-fourth of his age, Mr. Herbert 
was seized with a sharp quotidian ague, and thought to remove it 
by the change of air; to which end he went to Woodford in Essex, 
but thither more chiefly to enjoy the company of his beloved brother, 
Sir Henry Herbert, and other friends then of that family. In his 
house he remained about twelve months, and there became his own 
physician, and cured himself of his ague, by forbearing to drink, 
and not eating any meat, no not mutton, nor a hen, or pigeon, unless 
they were salted; and by such a constant diet he removed his ague, 
but with inconveniences that were worse; for he brought upon him- 
self a disposition to rheums, and other weaknesses, and a supposed 
consumption. And it is to be noted that in the sharpest of his extreme 
fits he would often say, "Lord, abate my great affliction, or increase 
my patience: but Lord, I repine not; I am dumb, Lord, before thee, 
because thou doest it." By which, and a sanctified submission to the 
will of God, he showed he was inclinable to bear the sweet yoke of 
Christian discipline, both then and in the latter part of his life, of 
which there will be many true testimonies. 

And now his care was to recover from his consumption, by a 
change from Woodford into such an air as was most proper to that 
end. And his remove was to Dauntsey in Wiltshire, a noble house, 
which stands in a choice air; the owner of it then was the Lord 
Danvers, Earl of Danby, who loved Mr. Herbert so very much, that 
he allowed him such an apartment in it as might best suit with his 


accommodation and liking. And in this place, by a spare diet, de- 
clining all perplexing studies, moderate exercise, and a cheerful con- 
versation, his health was apparently improved to a good degree of 
strength and cheerfulness. And then he declared his resolution both 
to marry and to enter into the sacred orders of priesthood. These 
had long been the desire of his mother and his other relations; but 
she lived not to see either, for she died in the year 1627. And though 
he was disobedient to her about Layton Church, yet, in conformity 
to her will, he kept his Orator's place till after her death, and then 
presently declined it; and the more willingly that he might be 
succeeded by his friend Robert Creighton, who now is Dr. Creighton, 
and the worthy Bishop of Wells. 

I shall now proceed to his marriage; in order to which, it will be 
convenient that I first give the reader a short view of his person, and 
then an account of his wife, and of some circumstances concerning 
both. He was for his person of a stature inclining towards tallness; 
his body was very straight, and so far from being cumbered with too 
much flesh, that he was lean to an extremity. His aspect was cheerful, 
and his speech and motion did both declare him a gentleman; for 
they were all so meek and obliging, that they purchased love and 
respect from all that knew him. 

These, and his other visible virtues, begot him much love from a 
gentleman of a noble fortune, and a near kinsman to his friend the 
Earl of Danby; namely, from Mr. Charles Danvers of Bainton, in 
the county of Wilts, Esq. This Mr. Danvers, having known him 
long, and familiarly, did so much afTect him, that he often and 
publicly declared a desire that Mr. Herbert would marry any of his 
nine daughters, — ^for he had so many, — but rather his daughter 
Jane than any other, because Jane was his beloved daughter. And 
he had often said the same to Mr. Herbert himself; and that if he 
could like her for a wife, and she him for a husband, Jane should 
have a double blessing: and Mr. Danvers had so often said the like 
to Jane, and so much commended Mr. Herbert to her, that Jane 
became so much a platonic as to fall in love with Mr. Herbert unseen. 

This was a fair preparation for a marriage; but, alas! her father 
died before Mr. Herbert's retirement to Dauntsey: yet some friends 
to both parties procured their meeting; at which time a mutual 


affection entered into both their hearts, as a conqueror enters into 
a surprised city; and love having got such possession, governed, 
and made there such laws and resolutions as neither party was able 
to resist; insomuch, that she changed her name into Herbert the 
third day after this first interview. 

This haste might in others be thought a love-frenzy, or worse; 
but it was not, for they had wooed so like princes, as to have select 
proxies; such as were true friends to both parties, such as well under- 
stood Mr. Herbert's and her temper of mind, and also their estates, 
so well before this interview, that the suddenness was justifiable by 
the strictest rules of prudence; and the more, because it proved so 
happy to both parties; for the eternal lover of mankind made them 
happy in each other's mutual and equal affections, and compliance; 
indeed, so happy, that there never was any opposition betwixt them, 
unless it were a contest which should most incline to a compliance 
with the other's desires. And though this begot, and continued in 
them, such a mutual love, and joy, and content, as was no way 
defective; yet this mutual content, and love, and joy, did receive a 
daily augmentation, by such daily obligingness to each other, as 
still added such new affluences to the former fulness of these divine 
souls, as was only improvable in heaven, where they now enjoy it. 

About three months after this marriage. Dr. Curie, who was then 
Rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, was made Bishop of Bath and 
Wells, and not long after translated to Winchester, and by that 
means the presentation of a clerk to Bemerton did not fall to the 
Earl of Pembroke, — who was the undoubted patron of it, — but to the 
King, by reason of Dr. Curie's advancement: but Philip, then Earl 
of Pembroke, — for William was lately dead — requested the King to 
bestow it upon his kinsman George Herbert; and the King said, 
"Most willingly to Mr. Herbert, if it be worth his acceptance;" and 
the Earl as willingly and suddenly sent it him, without seeking. But 
though Mr. Herbert had formerly put on a resolution for the clergy; 
yet, at receiving this presentation, the apprehension of the last great 
account, that he was to make for the cure of so many souls, made 
him fast and pray often, and consider for not less than a month: in 
which time he had some resolutions to decline both the priesthood 
and that living. And in this time of considering, "he endured," as 


he would often say, "such spiritual conflicts as none can think, but 
only those that have endured them." 

In the midst of these conflicts, his old and dear friend, Mr. Arthur 
Woodnot, took a journey to salute him at Bainton, — where he then 
was with his wife's friends and relations — and was joyful to be an 
eye-witness of his health and happy marriage. And after they had 
rejoiced together some few days, they took a journey to Wilton, the 
famous seat of the Earls of Pembroke; at which time the King, the 
Earl, and the whole court were there, or at Salisbury, which is near 
to it. And at this time Mr. Herbert presented his thanks to the Earl 
for his presentation to Bemerton, but had not yet resolved to accept 
it, and told him the reason why: but that night, the Earl acquainted 
Dr. Laud, then Bishop of London, and after Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, with his kinsman's irresolution. And the Bishop did the next 
day so convince Mr. Herbert that the refusal of it was sin, that a 
tailor was sent for to come speedily from Salisbury to Wilton, to 
make measure, and make him canonical clothes against next day; 
which the tailor did : and Mr. Herbert being so habited, went with 
his presentation to the learned Dr. Davenant, who was then Bishop 
of Salisbury, and he gave him institution immediately, — for Mr. 
Herbert had been made deacon some years before, — and he was also 
the same day — which was April 26th, 1630 — inducted into the good, 
and more pleasant than healthful, parsonage of Bemerton, which is 
a mile from Salisbury. 

I have now brought him to the parsonage of Bemerton, and to the 
thirty-sixth year of his age, and must stop here, and bespeak the 
reader to prepare for an almost incredible story, of the great sanctity 
of the short remainder of his holy life; a life so full of charity, 
humility, and all Christian virtues, that it deserves the eloquence of 
St. Chrysostom to commend and declare it: a life, that if it were re- 
lated by a pen like his, there would then be no need for this age to 
look back into times past for the examples of primitive piety; for they 
might be all found in the Ufe of George Herbert. But now, alas! who 
is fit to undertake it? I confess I am not; and am not pleased with 
myself that I must; and profess myself amazed when I consider how 
few of the clergy lived like him then, and how many live so unlike 
him now. But it becomes not me to censure: my design is rather 


to assure the reader that I have used very great diligence to inform 
myself, that I might inform him of the truth of what follows; and 
though I cannot adorn it with eloquence, yet I will do it with 

When at his induction he was shut into Bemerton Church, being 
left there alone to toll the bell, — as the law requires him, — he stayed 
so much longer than an ordinary time, before he returned to those 
friends that stayed expecting him at the church door, that his friend 
Mr. Woodnot looked in at the church window, and saw him lie 
prostrate on the ground before the altar; at which time and place — 
as he after told Mr. Woodnot — he set some rules to himself, for the 
future manage of his life; and then and there made a vow to labour 
to keep them. 

And the same night that he had his induction, he said to Mr. 
Woodnot, "I now look back upon my aspiring thoughts, and think 
myself more happy than if I had attained what then I so ambitiously 
thirsted for. And I now can behold the court with an impartial eye, 
and see plainly that it is made up of fraud and titles, and flattery, 
and many other such empty, imaginary, painted pleasures; pleasures 
that are so empty as not to satisfy when they are enjoyed. But in 
God, and his service, is a fulness of all joy and pleasure, and no 
satiety. And I will now use all my endeavours to bring my relations 
and dependants to a love and reliance on him, who never fails those 
that trust him. But above all, I will be sure to live well, because the 
virtuous life of a clergyman is the most powerful eloquence to 
persuade all that see it to reverence and love, and at least to desire 
to live like him. And this I will do, because I know we live in an 
age that hath more need of good examples than precepts. And I 
beseech that God, who hath honoured me so much as to call me to 
serve him at his altar, that as by his special grace he hath put into 
my heart these good desires and resolutions; so he will, by his assist- 
ing grace, give me ghostly strength to bring the same to good effect. 
And I beseech him, that my humble and charitable life may so win 
upon others, as to bring glory to my Jesus, whom I have this day 
taken to be my master and governor; and I am so proud of his 
service, that I will always observe, and obey, and do his will; and 
always call him, Jesus my Master; and I will always contemn my 


birth, or any title or dignity that can be conferred upon me, when 
I shall compare them with my title of being a priest, and serving at 
the altar of Jesus my Master." 

And that he did so may appear in many parts of his book of 
Sacred Poems: especially in that which he calls "The Odour." In 
which he seems to rejoice in the thoughts of that word Jesus, and 
say, that the adding these words, my master, to it, and the often 
repetition of them, seemed to perfume his mind, and leave an oriental 
fragrancy in his very breath. And for his unforced choice to serve 
at God's altar, he seems in another place of his (xjems, "The Pearl" 
(Matt. xiii. 45, 46), to rejoice and say: "He knew the ways of learn- 
ing; knew what nature does willingly, and what, when it is forced 
by fire; knew the ways of honour, and when glory inclines the soul 
to noble expressions: knew the court: knew the ways of pleasure, of 
love, of wit, of music, and upon what terms he declined all these for 
the service of his master Jesus": and then concludes, saying: 

That, through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit. 

But thy silk twist, let down from Heaven to me, 
Did both conduct, and teach me, how by it 

To climb to thee. 

The third day after he was made Rector of Bemerton, and had 
changed his sword and silk clothes into a canonical coat, he returned 
so habited with his friend Mr. Woodnot to Sainton; and immediately 
after he had seen and saluted his wife, he said to her — "You are now 
a minister's wife, and must now so far forget your father's house 
as not to claim a precedence of any of your parishioners; for you are 
to know, that a priest's wife can challenge no precedence or place, 
but that which she purchases by her obliging humility; and I am 
sure, places so purchased do best become them. And let me tell you, 
that I am so good a herald, as to assure you that this is truth." And 
she was so meek a wife, as to assure him, "it was no vexing news to 
her, and that he should see her observe it with a cheerful willingness." 
And, indeed, her unforced humility, that humility that was in her 
so original, as to be born with her, made her so happy as to do so; 
and her doing so begot her an unfeigned love, and a serviceable 
respect from all that conversed with her; and this love followed her 


in all places, as inseparably as shadows follow substances in sunshine. 

It was not many days before he returned back to Bemerton, to 
view the church and repair the chancel: and indeed to rebuild almost 
three parts of his house, which was fallen down, or decayed by 
reason of his predecessor's living at a better parsonage-house; namely, 
at Minal, sixteen or twenty miles from this place. At which time of 
Mr. Herbert's coming alone to Bemerton, there came to him a poor 
old woman, with an intent to acquaint him with her necessitous 
condition, as also with some troubles of her mind: but after she had 
spoke some few words to him, she was surprised with a fear, and 
that begot a shortness of breath, so that her spirits and speech failed 
her; which he jjerceiving, did so compassionate her, and was so hum- 
ble, that he took her by the hand, and said, "Speak, good mother; 
be not afraid to speak to me; for I am a man that will hear you with 
patience; and will relieve your necessities too, if I be able: and this 
I will do willingly; and therefore, mother, be not afraid to acquaint 
me with what you desire." After which comfortable speech, he again 
took her by the hand, made her sit down by him, and understanding 
she was of his parish, he told her "He would be acquainted with her, 
and take her into his care." And having with patience heard and 
understood her wants, — and it is some relief for a poor body to be 
but heard with patience, — he, like a Christian clergyman, comforted 
her by his meek behaviour and counsel; but because that cost him 
nothing, he relieved her with money too, and so sent her home with 
a cheerful heart, praising God, and praying for him. Thus worthy, 
and — like David's blessed man — thus lowly, was Mr. George Herbert 
in his own eyes, and thus lovely in the eyes of others. 

At his return that night to his wife at Bainton, he gave her an 
account of the passages betwixt him and the poor woman; with 
which she was so affected, that she went next day to Salisbury, and 
there bought a pair of blankets, and sent them as a token of her 
love to the poor woman; and with them a message, "that she would 
see and be acquainted with her, when her house was built at 

There be many such passages both of him and his wife, of which 
some few will be related: but I shall first tell, that he hasted to get 


the parish church repaired; then to beautify the chapel, — which 
stands near his house, — and that at his own great charge. He then 
proceeded to rebuild the greatest part of the parsonage-house, which 
he did also very completely, and at his own charge; and having done 
this good work, he caused these verses to be writ upon, or engraven 
in, the mantel of the chimney in his hall. 


If thou chance for to find 

A new house to thy mind. 
And built without thy cost; 

Be good to the poor. 

As God gives thee store, 
And then my labour's not lost. 

We will now, by the reader's favour, suppose him fixed at Bemer- 
ton, and grant him to have seen the church repaired, and the chapel 
belonging to it very decently adorned at his own great charge, — 
which is a real truth; — and having now fixed him there, I shall 
proceed to give an account of the rest of his behaviour, both to his 
parishioners, and those many others that knew and conversed with 

Doubtless Mr. Herbert had considered, and given rules to himself 
for his Christian carriage both to God and man, before he entered 
into holy orders. And 'tis not unlike, but that he renewed those 
resolutions at his prostration before the holy altar, at his induction 
into the church of Bemerton: but as yet he was but a deacon, and 
therefore longed for the next ember-week, that he might be ordained 
priest, and made capable of administering both the sacraments. At 
which time the Reverend Dr. Humphrey Henchman, now Lord 
Bishop of London, — who does not mention him but with some 
veneration for his life and excellent learning, — tells me, "He laid his 
hand on Mr. Herbert's head, and, alas! within less than three years 
lent his shoulder to carry his dear friend to his grave." 

And that Mr. Herbert might the better preserve those holy rules 
which such a priest as he intended to be ought to observe; and that 
time might not insensibly blot them out of his memory, but that 
the next year might show him his variations from this year's resolu- 
tions; he therefore did set down his rules, then resolved upon, in that 


order as the world now sees them printed in a little book, called The 
Country Parson; in which some of his rules are: 

The Parson's knowledge. The Parson arguing. 

The Parson on Sundays. The Parson condescending. 

The Parson praying. The Parson in his journey. 

The Parson preaching. The Parson in his mirth. 

The Parson's charity. The Parson with his Church- 
The Parson comforting the wardens. 

sick. The Parson blessing the people. 

And his behaviour towards God and man may be said to be a 
practical comment on these, and the other holy rules set down in 
that useful book: a book so full of plain, prudent, and useful rules, 
that that country parson that can spare twelve pence, and yet wants 
it, is scarce excusable; because it will both direct him what he ought 
to do, and convince him for not having done it. 

At the death of Mr. Herbert this book fell into the hands of his 
friend Mr. Woodnot; and he commended it into the trusty hands 
of Mr. Barnabas Oley, who published it with a most conscientious 
and excellent preface; from which I have had some of those truths, 
that are related in this life of Mr. Herbert. The text of his first 
sermon was taken out of Solomon's Proverbs, chap. iv. 23, and the 
words were, "Keep thy heart with all diligence." In which first 
sermon he gave his parishioners many necessary, holy, safe rules for 
the discharge of a good conscience, both to God and man; and 
delivered his sermon after a most florid manner, both with great 
learning and eloquence; but, at the close of this sermon, told them, 
"That should not be his constant way of preaching; for since Al- 
mighty God does not intend to lead men to heaven by hard questions, 
he would not therefore fill their heads with unnecessary notions; but 
that, for their sakes, his language and his expressions should be more 
plain and practical in his future sermons." And he then made it 
his humble request, "That they would be constant to the afternoon's 
service, and catechising;" and showed them convincing reasons why 
he desired it; and his obliging example and [persuasions brought 
them to a willing conformity to his desires. 

The texts for all his future sermons — which God knows were not 
many — were constantly taken out of the gospel for the day; and he 


did as constantly declare why the Church did appoint that portion 
of scripture to be that day read; and in what manner the collect for 
every Sunday does refer to the gospel, or to the episde then read to 
them; and, that they might pray with understanding, he did usually 
take occasion to explain, not only the collect for every particular 
Sunday, but the reasons of all the other collects and responses in our 
Church service; and made it appear to them that the whole service 
of the Church was a reasonable, and therefore an acceptable sacrifice 
to God: as namely, that we begin with "Confession of ourselves to 
be vile, miserable sinners;" and that we begin so, because, till we 
have confessed ourselves to be such, we are not capable of that mercy 
which we acknowledge we need, and pray for: but having, in the 
prayer of our Lord, begged pardon for those sins which we have 
confessed; and hoping, that as the priest hath declared our absolution, 
so by our public confession, and real repentance, we have obtained 
that pardon; then we dare and do proceed to beg of the Lord, "to 
op)en our lips, that our mouth may show forth his praise;" for till 
then we are neither able nor worthy to praise him. But this being 
supposed, we are then fit to say, "Glory be to the Father, and to 
the Son, and to the Holy Ghost;" and fit to proceed to a further 
service of our God, in the collects, and psalms, and lauds, that follow 
in the service. 

And as to the psalms and lauds, he proceeded to inform them why 
they were so often, and some of them daily, repeated in our Church 
service; namely, the psalms every month, because they be an historical 
and thankful repetition of mercies past, and such a composition of 
prayers and praises, as ought to be repeated often, and publicly; for 
with such sacrifice God is honoured and well-pleased. This for the 

And for the hymns and lauds appointed to be daily repeated or 
sung after the first and second lessons are read to the congregation; 
he proceeded to inform them, that it was most reasonable, after they 
have heard the will and goodness of God declared or preached by 
the priest in his reading the two chapters, that it was then a season- 
able duty to rise up, and express their gratitude to Almighty God 
for those his mercies to them, and to all mankind; and then to say 
with the Blessed Virgin, "that their souls do magnify the Lord, and 


that their spirits do also rejoice in God their Saviour:" and that it 
was their duty also to rejoice with Simeon in his song, and say with 
him, "That their eyes have" also "seen their salvation;" for they 
have seen that salvation which was but prophesied till his time: and 
he then broke out into these expressions of joy that he did see it; but 
they live to see it daily in the history of it, and therefore ought daily 
to rejoice, and daily to offer up their sacrifices of praise to their God, 
for that particular mercy. A service, which is now the constant em- 
ployment of that Blessed Virgin and Simeon, and all those blessed 
saints that are possessed of heaven: and where they are at this 
time interchangeably and constantly singing, "Holy, holy, holy. Lord 
God; glory be to God on high, and on earth peace." And he taught 
them that to do this was an acceptable service to God, because the 
Prophet David says in his Psalms, "He that praiseth the Lord honour- 
eth him." 

He made them to understand how happy they be that are freed 
from the encumbrances of that law which our forefathers groaned 
under: namely, from the legal sacrifices, and from the many cere- 
monies of the Levitical law; freed from circumcision, and from the 
strict observation of the Jewish Sabbath, and the like. And he made 
them know, that having received so many and great blessings, by 
being born since the days of our Saviour, it must be an acceptable 
sacrifice to Almighty God, for them to acknowledge those blessings 
daily, and stand up and worship, and say as Zacharias did, "Blessed 
be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath — in our days — visited and 
redeemed his people; and — he hath in our days — remembered, and 
showed that mercy, which by the mouth of the prophets he promised 
to our forefathers; and this he has done according to his holy 
covenant made with them." And he made them to understand that 
we live to see and enjoy the benefit of it, in his birth, in his life, his 
passion, his resurrection, and ascension into heaven, where he now 
sits sensible of all our temptations and infirmities; and where he is 
at this present time making intercession for us, to his and our Father: 
and therefore they ought daily to express their public gratulations, 
and say daily with Zacharias, "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, that 
hath thus visited and thus redeemed his people." These were some 
of the reasons by which Mr. Herbert instructed his congregation for 


the use of the psalms and hymns appointed to be daily sung or said 
in the Church service. 

He informed them also when the priest did pray only for the 
congregation, and not for himself; and when they did only pray 
for him;as namely,after the repetition of the creed before he proceeds 
to pray the Lord's Prayer, or any of the appointed collects, the priest 
is directed to kneel down and pray for them, saying, "The Lord be 
with you;" and when they pray for him, saying, "And with thy 
spirit;" and then they join together in the following collects: and he 
assured them, that when there is such mutual love, and such joint 
prayers offered for each other, then the holy angels look down from 
heaven, and are ready to carry such charitable desires to God Al- 
mighty, and he is ready to receive them; and that a Christian con- 
gregation calling thus upon God with one heart, and one voice, and 
in one reverent and humble posture, looks as beautifully as Jerusalem, 
that is at peace with itself. 

He instructed them also why the prayer of our Lord is prayed 
often in every full service of the Church; namely, at the conclusion 
of the several parts of that service; and prayed then, not only because 
it was composed and commanded by our Jesus that made it, but as 
a perfect pattern for our less perfect forms of prayer, and therefore 
fittest to sum up and conclude all our imperfect petitions. 

He instructed them also, that as by the second commandment we 
are required not to bow down, or worship an idol, or false God; 
so, by the contrary rule, we are to bow down and kneel, or stand 
up and worship the true God. And he instructed them why the 
Church required the congregation to stand up at the repetition of the 
creeds; namely, because they thereby declare both their obedience to 
the Church, and an assent to that faith into which they had been 
baptized. And he taught them, that in that shorter creed or doxology, 
so often repeated daily, they also stood up to testify their belief to 
be, that "the God that they trusted in was one God, and three 
persons; the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; to whom they 
and the priest gave glory." And because there had been heretics that 
had denied some of those three persons to be God, therefore the 
congregation stood up and honoured him, by confessing and saying, 
"It was so in the beginning, is now so, and shall ever be so, world 


without end." And all gave their assent to this belief, by standing up 
and saying Amen. 

He instructed them also what benefit they had by the Church's 
appointing the celebration of holy-days and the excellent use of them, 
namely, that they were set apart for particular commemorations of 
particular mercies received from Almighty God; and — as Reverend 
Mr. Hooker says — to be the landmarks to distinguish times; for by 
them we are taught to take notice how time passes by us, and that 
we ought not to let the years pass without a celebration of praise for 
those mercies which those days give us occasion to remember, and 
therefore they were to note that the year is appointed to begin the 
25th day of March; a day in which we commemorate the angel's 
appearing to the Blessed Virgin, with the joyful tidings that "she 
should conceive and bear a son, that should be the redeemer of man- 
kind." And she did so forty weeks after this joyful salutation; 
namely, at our Christmas; a day in which we commemorate his 
birth with joy and praise: and that eight days after this happy birth 
we celebrate his circumcision; namely, in that which we call New 
Year's day. And that, upon that day which we call Twelfth day, 
we commemorate the manifestation of the unsearchable riches of 
Jesus to the Gentiles: and that that day we also celebrate the memory 
of his goodness in sending a star to guide the three wise men from 
the east to Bethlehem, that they might there worship, and present 
him with their oblation of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And he — 
Mr. Herbert — instructed them that Jesus was forty days after his 
birth presented by his blessed mother in the temple; namely, on 
that day which we call "The Purification or the Blessed Virgin, 
Saint Mary." And he instructed them that by the Lent-fast we imitate 
and commemorate our Saviour's humiUation in fasting forty days; 
and that we ought to endeavour to be like him in purity: and that 
on Good Friday we commemorate and condole his crucifixion; 
and on Easter commemorate his glorious resurrection. And he 
taught them that after Jesus had manifested himself to his dis- 
ciples to be "that Christ that was crucified, dead and buried;" 
and by his appearing and conversing with his disciples for the space 
of forty days after his resurrection, he then, and not till then, ascended 
into heaven in the sight of those disciples; namely, on that day 


which we call the ascension, or Holy Thursday. And that we then 
celebrate the performance of the promise which he made to his dis- 
ciples at or before his ascension ; namely, "that though he left them, 
yet he would send them the Holy Ghost to be their comforter;" and 
that he did so on that day which the Church calls Whitsunday. Thus 
the Church keeps an historical and circular commemoration of times, 
as they pass by us; of such times as ought to incline us to occasional 
praises, for the particular blessings which we do, or might receive, 
by those holy commemorations. 

He made them know also why the Church hath appointed ember- 
weeks; and to know the reason why the commandments, and the 
epistles and gospels, were to be read at the altar or communion table: 
why the priest was to pray the Litany kneeling; and why to pray 
some collects standing: and he gave them many other observations, 
fit for his plain congregation, but not fit for me now to mention; 
for I must set limits to my pen, and not make that a treatise which 
I intended to be a much shorter account than I have made it; but 
I have done, when I have told the reader that he was constant in 
catechising every Sunday in the afternoon, and that his catechising 
was after his second lesson, and in the pulpit; and that he never 
exceeded his half-hour, and was always so happy as to have an 
obedient and full congregation. 

And to this I must add, that if he were at any time too zealous in 
his sermons, it was in reproving the indecencies of the people's 
behaviour in the time of divine service; and of those ministers that 
huddle up the Church prayers, without a visible reverence and 
affection; namely, such as seemed to say the Lord's Prayer or a 
collect in a breath. But for himself, his custom was to stop betwixt 
every collect, and give the people time to consider what they had 
prayed, and to force their desires affectionately to God, before he 
engaged them into new petitions. 

And by this account of his diligence to make his parishioners 
understand what they prayed, and why they praised and adored their 
Creator, I hope I shall the more easily obtain the reader's belief to 
the following account of Mr. Herbert's own practice; which was 
to appear constantly with his wife and three nieces — the daughters 
of a deceased sister — and his whole family, twice every day at the 


Church prayers in the chapel, which does almost join his parsonage- 
house. And for the time of his appearing, it was strictly at the 
canonical hours of ten and four: and then and here he lifted up 
pure and charitable hands to God in the midst of the congregation. 
And he would joy to have spent that time in that place, where the 
honour of his master Jesus dwelleth; and there, by that inward 
devotion which he testified constantly by an humble behaviour and 
visible adoration, he, like Joshua, brought not only "his own house- 
hold thus to serve the Lord;" but brought most of his parishioners, 
and many gentlemen in the neighbourhood, constantly to make a 
part of his congregation twice a day: and some of the meaner sort 
of his parish did so love and reverence Mr. Herbert, that they would 
let their plough rest when Mr. Herbert's saint's-bell rung to prayers, 
that they might also offer their devotions to God with him; and 
would then return back to their plough. And his most holy life 
was such, that it begot such reverence to God, and to him, that they 
thought themselves the happier when they carried Mr. Herbert's 
blessing back with them to their labour. Thus powerful was his 
reason and example to persuade others to a practical piety and 

And his constant public prayers did never make him to neglect his 
own private devotions, nor those prayers that he thought himself 
bound to perform with his family, which always were a set form, 
and not long; and he did always conclude them with a collect which 
the Church hath appointed for the day or week. Thus he made 
every day's sanctity a step towards that kingdom, where impurity 
cannot enter. 

His chiefest recreation was music, in which heavenly art he was 
a most excellent master, and did himself compose many divine 
hymns and anthems, which he set and sung to his lute or viol: and 
though he was a lover of retiredness, yet his love to music was such, 
that he went usually twice every week, on certain appointed days, 
to the Cathedral Church in Salisbury; and at his return would say, 
"That his time spent in prayer, and cathedral-music, elevated his 
soul, and was his heaven upon earth." But before his return thence 
to Bemerton, he would usually sing and play his part at an appointed 
private music-meeting; and, to justify this practice, he would often 


say, "Religion does not banish mirth, but only moderates and sets 
rules to it." 

And as his desire to enjoy his heaven upon earth drew him twice 
every week to Salisbury, so his walks thither were the occasion of 
many happy accidents to others; of which I will mention some few. 

In one of his walks to Salisbury, he overtook a gentleman, that 
is still living in that city; and in their walk together, Mr. Herbert 
took a fair occasion to talk with him, and humbly begged to be 
excused, if he asked him some account of his faith; and said, "I do 
this the rather because though you are not of my parish, yet 1 receive 
tithe from you by the hand of your tenant; and, sir, I am the bolder 
to do it, because I know there be some sermon-bearers that be like 
those fishes that always live in salt water, and yet are always fresh." 

After which expression, Mr. Herbert asked him some needful 
questions, and having received his answer, gave him such rules for 
the trial of his sincerity, and for a practical piety, and in so loving 
and meek a manner, that the gentleman did so fall in love with him, 
and his discourse, that he would often contrive to meet him in his 
walk to Salisbury, or to attend him back to Bemerton; and still 
mentions the name of Mr. George Herbert with veneration, and still 
praiseth God for the occasion of knowing him. 

In another of his Salisbury walks he met with a neighbour min- 
ister; and after some friendly discourse betwixt them, and some con- 
dolement for the decay of piety, and too general contempt of the 
clergy, Mr. Herbert took occasion to say : 

"One cure for these distempers would be for the clergy themselves 
to keep the ember-weeks strictly, and beg of their parishioners to 
join with them in fasting and prayers for a more religious clergy. 

"And another cure would be for themselves to restore the great 
and neglected duty of catechising, on which the salvation of so many 
of the poor and ignorant lay-people does depend; but principally, 
that the clergy themselves would be sure to live unblamably; and 
that the dignified clergy especially which preach temjjerance would 
avoid surfeiting and take all occasions to express a visible humility 
and charity in their lives; for this would force a love and an imitation, 
and an unfeigned reverence from all that knew them to be such." 
(And for proof of this, we need no other testimony than the life 


and death of Dr. Lake, late Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells.) "This," 
said Mr. Herbert, "would be a cure for the wickedness and growing 
atheism of our age. And, my dear brother, till this be done by us, 
and done in earnest, let no man expect a reformation of the manners 
of the laity; for 'tis not learning, but this, this only that must do it; 
and, till then, the fault must lie at our doors." 

In another walk to Salisbury he saw a poor man with a poorer 
horse, that was fallen under his load: they were both in distress, 
and needed present help; which Mr. Herbert perceiving, put off 
his canonical coat, and helped the poor man to unload, and after to 
load, his horse. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed 
the poor man; and was so like the good Samaritan, that he gave him 
money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, "That 
if he loved himself he should be merciful to his beast." Thus he left 
the poor man : and at his coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, 
they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, which used to be so 
trim and clean, came into that company so soiled and discomposed: 
but he told them the occasion. And when one of the company 
told him "He had disparaged himself by so dirty an employment," 
his answer was, "That the thought of what he had done would 
prove music to him at midnight; and that the omission of it would 
have upbraided and made discord in his conscience, whensoever he 
should pass by that place: for if I be bound to pray for all that be 
in distress, I am sure that I am bound, so far as it is in my power, 
to practise what I pray for. And though I do not wish for the like 
occasion every day, yet let me tell you, I would not willingly pass 
one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy; 
and I praise God for this occasion. And now let's tune our 

Thus, as our blessed Saviour, after his resurrection, did take occa- 
sion to interpret scripture to Cleopas, and that other disciple, which 
he met with and accompanied in their journey to Emmaus; so Mr. 
Herbert, in his path toward heaven, did daily take any fair occasion 
to instruct the ignorant, or comfort any that were in affliction; and 
did always confirm his precepts by showing humility and mercy, and 
ministering grace to the hearers. 

And he was most happy in his wife's unforced compliance with 


his acts of charity, whom he made his almoner, and paid constandy 
into her hand a tenth penny of what money he received for tithe, 
and gave her power to dispose that to the poor of his parish, and 
with it a power to dispose a tenth part of the corn that came yearly 
into his barn: which trust she did most faithfully perform, and would 
often offer to him an account of her stewardship, and as often beg 
an enlargement of his bounty; for she rejoiced in the employment: 
and this was usually laid out by her in blankets and shoes for some 
such poor people as she knew to stand in most need of them. This 
as to her charity. — And for his own, he set no limits to it: nor did 
ever turn his face from any that he saw in want, but would relieve 
them; especially his poor neighbours; to the meanest of whose houses 
he would go, and inform himself of their wants, and relieve them 
cheerfully, if they were in distress; and would always praise God, 
as much for being willing, as for being able to do it. And when 
he was advised by a friend to be more frugal, because he might have 
children, his answer was, "He would not see the danger of want so 
far off: but being the scripture does so commend charity, as to tell 
us that charity is the top of Christian virtues, the covering of sins, 
the fulfilling of the law, the life of faith; and that charity hath a 
promise of the blessings of this life, and of a reward in that life 
which is to come: being these, and more excellent things are in scrip- 
ture spx)ken of thee, O charity! and that, being all my tithes and 
Church dues are a deodate from thee, O my Ciod! make me, O my 
God! so far to trust thy promise, as to return them back to thee; and 
by thy grace I will do so, in distributing them to any of thy poor 
members that are in distress, or do but bear the image of Jesus my 
master." "Sir," said he to his friend, "my wife hath a competent 
maintenance secured her after my death; and therefore, as this is my 
prayer, so this my resolution shall, by God's grace, be unalterable." 
This may be some account of the excellencies of the active part 
of his Hfe; and thus he continued, till a consumption so weakened 
him as to confine him to his house, or to the chapel, which does 
almost join to it; in which he continued to read prayers constantly 
twice every day, though he were very weak: in one of which times 
of his reading his wife observed him to read in pain, and told him 
so, and that it wasted his spirits, and weakened him; and he confessed 


it did, but said, his "life could not be better spent than in the 
service of his master Jesus, who had done and suffered so much for 
him. But," said he, "I will not be wilful; for though my spirit be 
willing, yet I find my flesh is weak; and therefore Mr. Bostock shall 
be appointed to read prayers for me to-morrow; and I will now be 
only a hearer of them, till this mortal shall put on immortality." 
And Mr. Bostock did the next day undertake and continue this 
happy employment till Mr. Herbert's death. This Mr. Bostock was 
a learned and virtuous man, an old friend of Mr. Herbert's, and then 
his curate to the church of Pulsion, which is a mile from Bemerton, 
to which church Bemerton is but a chapel of ease. And this Mr. 
Bostock did also constantly supply the Church service for Mr. 
Herbert in that chapel, when the music-meeting at Salisbury caused 
his absence from it. 

About one month before his death, his friend Mr. Farrer, — for 
an account of whom 1 am by promise indebted to the reader, and 
intend to make him sudden payment, — hearing of Mr. Herbert's 
sickness, sent Mr. Edmund Duncon — who is now rector of Friar 
Barnet in the county of Middlesex — from his house of Gidden Hall, 
which is near to Huntingdon, to see Mr. Herbert, and to assure him 
he wanted not his daily prayers for his recovery; and Mr. Duncon 
was to return back to Gidden, with an account of Mr. Herbert's 
condition. Mr. Duncon found him weak, and at that time lying on 
his bed, or on a pallet; but at his seeing Mr. Duncon he raised' 
himself vigorously, saluted him, and with some earnestness inquired 
the health of his brother Farrer; of which Mr. Duncon satisfied him, 
and after some discourse of Mr. Farrer's holy life, and the manner of 
his constant serving God, he said to Mr. Duncon, — "Sir, 1 see by 
your habit that you are a priest, and I desire you to pray with me:" 
which being granted, Mr. Duncon asked him, "What prayers?" 
To which Mr. Herbert's answer was, "O sir! the prayers of my 
mother, the Church of England: no other prayers are equal to them! 
But at this time I beg of you to pray only the Litany, for I am weak 
and faint:" and Mr. Duncon did so. After which, and some other 
discourse of Mr. Farrer, Mrs. Herbert provided Mr. Duncon a plain 
supper, and a clean lodging, and he betook himself to rest. This 
Mr. Duncon tells me; and he tells me that, at his first view of Mr. 


Herbert, he saw majesty and humility so reconciled in his looks and 
behaviour, as begot in him an awful reverence for his person; and 
says, "his discourse was so pious, and his motion so genteel and 
meek, that after almost forty years, yet they remain still fresh in his 

The next morning Mr. Duncon left him, and betook himself to 
a journey to Bath, but with a promise to return back to him within 
five days; and he did so: but before I shall say anything of what 
discourse then fell betwixt them two, I will pay my promised account 
of Mr. Farrer. 

Mr. Nicholas Farrer — who got the reputation of being called St. 
Nicholas at the age of six years — was born in London, and doubtless 
had good education in his youth; but certainly was, at an early 
age, made Fellow of Clare Hall in Cambridge; where he continued 
to be eminent for his piety, temperance, and learning. About the 
twenty-sixth year of his age he betook himself to travel : in which he 
added to his Latin and Greek a perfect knowledge of all the lan- 
guages spoken in the western parts of our Christian world; and 
understood well the principles of their religion, and of their manner, 
and the reasons of their worship. In this his travel he met with many 
persuasions to come into a communion with that Church which 
calls itself Catholic; but he returned from his travels as he went, 
eminent for his obedience to his mother, the Church of England. In 
his absence from England, Mr. Farrer's father — who was a merchant 
— allowed him a liberal maintenance; and, not long after his return 
into England, Mr. Farrer had, by the death of his father, or an elder 
brother, or both, an estate left him that enabled him to purchase land 
to the value of four or five hundred pounds a year; the greatest part 
of which land was at Little Gidden, four or six miles from Hunting- 
don, and about eighteen from Cambridge; which place he chose 
for the privacy of it, and for the hall, which had the parish church 
or chap)el belonging and adjoining near to it; for Mr. Farrer, having 
seen the manners and vanities of the world, and found them to be, 
as Mr. Herbert says, "a nothing between two dishes," did so con- 
temn it, that he resolved to spend the remainder of his life in mortifi- 
cations, and in devotion, and charity, and to be always prepared for 
death. And his life was spent thus: 


He and his family, which were Uke a Uttle college, and about thirty 
in number, did most of them keep Lent and all ember-weeks strictly, 
both in fasting and using all those mortifications and prayers that 
the Church hath appointed to be then used: and he and they did 
the Uke constantly on Fridays, and on the vigils or eves to be fasted 
before the saints' days: and this frugality and abstinence turned to 
the relief of the poor: but this was but a part of his charity; none but 
God and he knew the rest. 

This family, which I have said to be in number about thirty, 
were a part of them his kindred, and the rest chosen to be of a tem- 
per fit to be moulded into a devout life; and all of them were for 
their dispositions serviceable, and quiet, and humble, and free from 
scandal. Having thus fitted himself for his family, he did, about 
the year 1630, betake himself to a constant and methodical service 
of God; and it was in this manner: — He, being accompanied with 
most of his family, did himself use to read the common prayers — 
for he was a deacon — every day, at the appointed hours of ten and 
four, in the parish church, which was very near his house, and which 
he had both repaired and adorned; for it was fallen into a great 
ruin, by reason of a depopulation of the village before Mr. Farrer 
bought the manor. And he did also constantly read the matins 
every morning at the hour of six, either in the church, or in an 
oratory, which was within his own house. And many of the family 
did there continue with him after the prayers were ended, and there 
they spent some hours in singing hymns, or anthems, sometimes in 
the church, and often to an organ in the oratory. And there they 
sometimes betook themselves to meditate, or to pray privately, or to 
read a part of the New Testament to themselves, or to continue their 
praying or reading the psalms; and in case the psalms were not 
always read in the day, then Mr. Farrer and others of the congrega- 
tion did at night, at the ringing of a watch-bell, repair to the church 
or oratory, and there betake themselves to prayer and lauding God, 
and reading the psalms that had not been read in the day: and when 
these, or any part of the congregation, grew weary or faint, the 
watch-bell was rung, sometimes before and sometimes after mid- 
night; and then another part of the family rose, and maintained the 
watch, sometimes by praying, or singing lauds to God, or reading 


the psalms; and when, after some hours, they also grew weary or 
faint, then they rung the watch-bell and were also relieved by some 
of the former, or by a new part of the society, which continued their 
devotions — as hath been mentioned — until morning. And it is to 
be noted, that in this continued serving of God, the psalter or the 
whole book of psalms, was in every four and twenty hours sung 
or read over, from the first to the last verse: and this was done as 
constantly as the sun runs his circle every day about the world, and 
then begins again the same instant that it ended. 

Thus did Mr. Farrer and his happy family serve God day and 
night; thus did they always behave themselves as in his presence. 
And they did always eat and drink by the strictest rules of temper- 
ance; eat and drink so as to be ready to rise at midnight, or at 
the call of the watch-bell, and perform their devotions to God. And 
it is fit to tell the reader, that many of the clergy, that were more 
inclined to practical piety and devotion than to doubtful and needless 
disputations, did often come to Gidden Hall, and make themselves 
a part of that happy society, and stay a week or more, and then join 
with Mr. Farrer and the family in these devotions, and assist and 
ease him or them in their watch by night. And these various devo- 
tions had never less than two of the domestic family in the night; 
and the watch was always kept in the church or oratory, unless in 
extreme cold winter nights, and then it was maintained in a parlour, 
which had a fire in it; and the parlour was fitted for that purpose. 
And this course of piety, and great liberality to his poor neighbours, 
Mr. Farrer maintained till his death, which was in the year 1639. 

Mr. Farrer's and Mr. Herbert's devout lives were both so noted, 
that the general report of their sanctity gave them occasion to renew 
that slight acquaintance which was begun at their being contempo- 
raries in Cambridge; and this new holy friendship was long main- 
tained without any interview, but only by loving and endearing 
letters. And one testimony of their friendship and pious designs 
may appear by Mr. Farrer's commending the Considerations of John 
Vddesso — a book which he had met with in his travels, and trans- 
lated out of Spanish into English — to be examined and censored by 
Mr. Herbert before it was made public: which excellent book Mr. 
Herbert did read, and return back with many marginal notes, as 


they be now printed with it; and with them, Mr. Herbert's affec- 
tionate letter to Mr. Farrer. 

This John Valdesso was a Spaniard, and was for his learning and 
virtue much valued and loved by the great Emperor Charles the 
Fifth, whom Valdesso had followed as a cavalier all the time of his 
long and dangerous wars: and when Valdesso grew old, and grew 
weary both of war and the world, he took his fair opportunity to 
declare to the Emperor that his resolution was to decline his Majesty's 
service, and betake himself to a quiet and contemplative life, "because 
there ought to be a vacancy of time betwixt fighting and dying." 
The Emperor had himself, for the same, or other like reasons, put 
on the same resolution: but God and himself did, till then, only 
know them; and he did therefore desire Valdesso to consider well 
of what he had said, and to keep his purpose within his own breast, 
till they two might have a second opportunity of a friendly discourse; 
which Valdesso promised to do. 

In the meantime the Emperor appoints privately a day for him 
and Valdesso to meet again; and after a pious and free discourse, 
they both agreed on a certain day to receive the blessed sacrament 
publicly; and appointed an eloquent and devout friar to preach a 
sermon of contempt of the world, and of the happiness and benefit 
of a quiet and contemplative life; which the friar did most affection- 
ately. After which sermon, the Emperor took occasion to declare 
openly, "That the preacher had begot in him a resolution to lay down 
his dignities, and to forsake the world, and betake himself to a 
monastical life." And he pretended he had persuaded John Valdesso 
to do the like: but this is most certain, that after the Emperor had 
called his son Philip out of England, and resigned to him all his 
kingdoms, that then the Emperor and John Valdesso did perform 
their resolutions. 

This account of John Valdesso I received from a friend, that had 
it from the mouth of Mr. Farrer. And the reader may note that in 
this retirement John Valdesso writ his Hundred and Ten Considera- 
tions, and many other treatises of worth, which want a second Mr. 
Farrer to procure and translate them. 

After this account of Mr. Farrer and John Valdesso, I proceed to 
my account of Mr. Herbert and Mr. Duncon, who according to his 


promise returned from Bath the fifth day, and then found Mr. 
Herbert much weaker than he left him; and therefore their discourse 
could not be long: but at Mr. Duncon's parting with him, Mr. 
Herbert spoke to this purpose: "Sir, I pray you give my brother 
Farrer an account of the decaying condition of my body, and tell 
him I beg him to continue his daily prayers for me; and let him 
know that I have considered, that God only is what he would be; 
and that I am, by his grace, become now so like him, as to be pleased 
with what pleaseth him; and tell him, that I do not repine but am 
pleased with my want of health: and tell him, my heart is fixed on 
that place where true joy is only to be found; and that I long to be 
there, and do wait for my appointed change with hope and patience." 
Having said this, he did, with so sweet a humihty as seemed to exalt 
him, bow down to Mr. Duncon, and with a thoughtful and contented 
look, say to him, "Sir.I pray dehver this little book to my dear brother 
Farrer, and tell him he shall find in it a picture of the many spiritual 
conflicts that have passed betwixt God and my soul, before I could 
subject mine to the will of Jesus my master: in whose service I have 
now found perfect freedom. Desire him to read it; and then, if he 
can think it may turn to the advantage of any dejected poor soul, 
let it be made public; if not, let him burn it; for I and it are less 
than the least of God's mercies." Thus meanly did this humble 
man think of this excellent book, which now bears the name of 
The Temple; or, Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations; of which 
Mr. Farrer would say, "There was in it the picture of a divine soul 
in every page: and that the whole book was such a harmony of holy 
passions, as would enrich the world with pleasure and piety." And 
it appears to have done so; for there have been more than twenty 
thousand of them sold since the first impression. 

And this ought to be noted, that when Mr. Farrer sent this book 
to Cambridge to be licensed for the press, the Vice-Chancellor would 
by no means allow the two so much noted verses. 

Religion stands a tiptoe in our land, 
Ready to pass to the American strand, 

to be printed; and Mr. Farrer would by no means allow the book 
to be printed and want them. But after some time, and some argu- 


ments for and against their being made public, the Vice-Chancellor 
said, "I knew Mr. Herbert well, and know that he had many 
heavenly speculations, and was a divine poet: but I hope the world 
will not take him to be an inspired prophet, and therefore 1 license 
the whole book." So that it came to be printed without the diminu- 
tion or addition of a syllable, since it was delivered into the hands of 
Mr. Duncon, save only that Mr. Farrer hath added that excellent 
preface that is printed before it. 

At the time of Mr. Duncon's leaving Mr. Herbert, — which was 
about three weeks before his death, — his old and dear friend Mr. 
Woodnot came from London to Bemerton, and never left him till 
he had seen him draw his last breath, and closed his eyes on his 
death-bed. In this time of his decay, he was often visited and prayed 
for by all the clergy that lived near to him, especially by his friends 
the Bishop and Prebends of the Cathedral Church in Salisbury; but 
by none more devoutly than his wife, his three nieces, — then a part 
of his family, — and Mr. Woodnot, who were the sad witnesses of 
his daily decay; to whom he would often speak to this purpose: "I 
now look back upon the pleasures of my hfe past, and see the content 
I have taken in beauty, in wit, in music, and pleasant conversation, 
are now all passed by me like a dream, or as a shadow that returns 
not, and are now all become dead to me, or I to them; and I see, that 
as my father and generation hath done before me, so I also shall 
now suddenly (with Job) make my bed also in the dark; and I 
praise God I am prepared for it; and I praise him that I am not to 
learn patience now I stand in such need of it; and that I have 
practised mortification, and endeavoured to die daily, that I might 
not die eternally; and my hope is, that I shall shortly leave this valley 
of tears, and be free from all fevers and pain; and, which will be a 
more happy condition, I shall be free from sin, and all the tempta- 
tions and anxieties that attend it: and this being past, I shall dwell 
in the New Jerusalem; dwell there with men made perfect; dwell 
where these eyes shall see my master and Saviour Jesus; and with 
him see my dear mother, and all my relations and friends. But I 
must die, or not come to that happy place. And this is my content, 
that I am going daily towards it: and that every day which I have 
lived, hath taken a part of my appointed time from me; and that 


I shall live the less time, for having lived this and the day past." 
These, and the like expressions, which he uttered often, may be said 
to be his enjoyment of heaven before he enjoyed it. The Sunday 
before his death, he rose suddenly from his bed or couch, called for 
one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and said, — 

My God, my God, 

My music shall find thee. 

And every string 
Shall have his attribute to sing. 

And having tuned it, he played and sung — 

The Sundays of man's life, 
Threaded together on time's string. 
Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal glorious King: 
On Sundays Heaven's door stands ope; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife, 

More plentiful than hope. 

Thus he sung on earth such hymns and anthems as the angels, 
and he, and Mr. Farrer now sing in heaven. 

Thus he continued meditating, and praying, and rejoicing, till the 
day of his death; and on that day said to Mr. Woodnot, "My dear 
friend, I am sorry I have nothing to present to my merciful God 
but sin and misery; but the first is pardoned, and a few hours will 
now put a period to the latter; for I shall suddenly go hence, and be 
no more seen." Upon which expression Mr. Woodnot took occasion 
to remember him of the re-edifying Layton Church, and his many 
acts of mercy. To which he made answer, saying, "They be good 
works, if they be sprinkled with the blood of Christ, and not other- 
wise." After this discourse he became more restless, and his soul 
seemed to be weary of her earthly tabernacle; and this uneasiness 
became so visible, that his wife, his three nieces, and Mr. Woodnot 
stood constantly about his bed, beholding him with sorrow, and an 
unwillingness to lose the sight of him, whom they could not hope 
to see much longer. As they stood thus beholding him, his wife 
observed him to breathe faintly, and with much trouble, and observed 
him to fall into a sudden agony; which so surprised her, that she 


fell into a sudden passion, and required of him to know how he 
did. To which his answer was, "that he had passed a conflict with 
his last enemy, and had overcome him by the merits of his master 
Jesus." After which answer he looked up, and saw his wife and 
nieces weeping to an extremity, and charged them, if they loved him, 
to withdraw into the next room, and there pray every one alone for 
him; for nothing but their lamentations could make his death un- 
comfortable. To which request their sighs and tears would not 
suffer them to make any reply; but they yielded him a sad obedience, 
leaving only with him Mr. Woodnot and Mr. Bostock. Immediately 
after they had left him, he said to Mr. Bostock, "Pray, sir, open that 
door, then look into that cabinet, in which you may easily find my 
last will, and give it into my hand": which being done, Mr. Herbert 
delivered it into the hand of Mr. Woodnot, and said, "My old friend, 
I here deliver you my last will, in which you will find that I have 
made you my sole executor for the good of my wife and nieces; and 
I desire you to show kindness to them, as they shall need it: I do 
not desire you to be just; for I know you will be so for your own 
sake; but I charge you, by the religion of our friendship, to be careful 
of them." And having obtained Mr. Woodnot's promise to be so, 
he said, "I am now ready to die." After which words he said, "Lord, 
forsake me not now my strength faileth me: but grant me mercy for 
the merits of my Jesus. And now, Lord — Lord, now receive my 
soul." And with those words he breathed forth his divine soul, 
without any apparent disturbance, Mr. Woodnot and Mr. Bostock 
attending his last breath, and closing his eyes. 

Thus he lived, and thus he died, like a saint, unspotted of the 
world, full of alms-deeds, full of humility, and all the examples 
of a virtuous life; which I cannot conclude better, than with this 
borrowed observation: 

— All must to their cold graves: 

But the religious actions of the just 

Smell sweet in death, and blossom in the dust. 

Mr. George Herbert's have done so to this, and will doubtless do 
so to succeeding generations. I have but this to say more of him: 
that if Andrew Melvin died before him, then George Herbert 


died without an enemy. I wish — if God shall be so pleased — that I 
may be so happy as to die Uke him. Iz. Wa. 

There is a debt justly due to the memory of Mr. Herbert's virtuous 
wife; a part of which I will endeavour to pay, by a very short account 
of the remainder of her life, which shall follow. 

She continued his disconsolate widow about six years, bemoaning 
herself, and complaining, that she had lost the delight of her eyes; 
but more that she had lost the spiritual guide for her poor soul; and 
would often say, "O that I had, like holy Mary, the mother of Jesus, 
treasured up all his sayings in my heart! But since I have not been 
able to do that, I will labour to live like him, that where he now is I 
may be also." And she would often say, — as the prophet David for 
his son Absalom, — "O that I had died for him!" Thus she continued 
mourning till time and conversation had so moderated her sorrows, 
that she became the happy wife of Sir Robert Cook, of Highnam, in 
the county of Gloucester, Knight. And though he put a high value 
on the excellent accomplishments of her mind and body, and was 
so like Mr. Herbert, as not to govern like a master, but as an affec- 
tionate husband; yet she would even to him often take occasion to 
mention the name of Mr. George Herbert, and say, that name must 
live in her memory till she put off mortality. By Sir Robert she had 
only one child, a daughter, whose parts and plentiful estate make her 
happy in this world, and her well using of them gives a fair 
testimony that she will be so in that which is to come. 

Mrs. Herbert was the wife of Sir Robert eight years, and lived his 
widow about fifteen; all which time she took a pleasure in mention- 
ing and commending the excellencies of Mr. George Herbert. She 
died in the year 1663, and lies buried at Highnam: Mr. Herbert in 
his own church, under the altar, and covered with a gravestone 
without any inscription. 

This Lady Cook had preserved many of Mr. Herbert's private 
writings, which she intended to make public; but they and Highnam 
House were burnt together by the late rebels, and so lost to posterity.