John Bunyan's Dream Story

Front matter

JOHN BUNYAN'S DREAM STORY

"THE NAME OF THAT CHAMBER WAS PEACE" (See page 60)

JOHN BUNYAN'S

Foreword

FOREWORD

OF the great books which have been composed or partly written in prison, the Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan, is the best known and the most remarkable. Its author was a young man of thirty-two when he was thrown into the common jail at Bedford, England; he was past forty-four and middle-aged when he was released. His only offense against the law was preaching that which he believed to be true.

The dungeon in which he was immured was so vile that the worst prisons in our country are delightful places when compared with it. But here John Bunyan had ample time to think and to put his thoughts together. His education was of the poorest sort, and during his imprisonment he had access to but two volumes—the Bible and Fox's "Book of Martyrs." As he thought upon the great problems of existence, the idea of a story came, little by little, into his mind—a story in the form of a dream, a story of man's life regarded as a journey or pilgrimage.

By and by, he began to write such a story. He wrote it in the easy, simple language of the common people, and, without knowing it, produced one of the most beautiful prose poems ever written. After his release from prison his work was submitted to a printer who corrected its bad spelling and most of its faulty grammar, and in 1677 it was published.

The Pilgrim's Progress came into the world very modestly; but the charm of the story was such that, without advertisement, it soon grew into fame. Edition after edition was called for, and wherever the English language was known it became the subject of daily talk among the common people. For two hundred years or more no other English book was so generally known and read.

No other book of modern times has had a history so remarkable as this simple story "in the similitude of a dream." It has been translated into eighty languages. It has been turned into verse. It has been rewritten in scholarly English. It has been imitated a score of times in short-lived books whose very titles are forgotten. It has been remodeled and adapted to serve the most remarkable and diverse purposes. It has been dramatized and presented upon the stage as a beautiful and most impressive play. Notwithstanding all this, however, the original work, as first written in the dialect of the humble people of Bunyan's own time and station, remains unequaled and unharmed.

With the changed conditions of life in our own times the popularity of the Pilgrim's Progress has greatly waned. While it was formerly the first and perhaps the only story book read by thousands of children of all ages, it is now known to but few young people except by name. Its distinctively religious character has excluded it from the public schools and caused it to remain a closed book to the majority of twentieth-century readers. Tastes have changed, and long dialogues and disquisitions on faith and justification are no longer interesting or agreeable.

But suppose we divest the story of some of those qualities which may be described as old-fashioned and out of date—suppose that, retaining its essential peculiarities of style and diction, we repeat it without apparent didactic intent, simply as a pleasing narrative—and John Bunyan's dream story becomes a delightful fairy tale, poetic in form and surpassingly interesting.

Such was the intent with which the preparation of the present little book was undertaken. In pursuing this intent, an effort has been made to relate the story in a manner that will appeal to present-day readers simply because of its inherent interest. Wherever it has been possible within the limits of this plan, the words of Bunyan have been retained, and much care has been taken to preserve as far as possible the quaint and beautiful style of the original. Of course much abridgment has been necessary; and, in general, whatever the modern reader would be tempted to skip has been left out or rewritten.

Thus John Bunyan's dream story is presented to the school children of the twentieth century. May it prove to be as acceptable to them as, in its complete form, the Pilgrim's Progress was pleasing to the simple-hearted but adult readers of Bunyan's own time.

Prologue

PROLOGUE

WOULDST thou divert thyself from melancholy? Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation, Or else be drownéd in thy contemplation? Dost thou love picking meat? Or, wouldst thou see A man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee? Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? Wouldst thou lose thyself and catch no harm, And find thyself again without a charm? Wouldst read thyself, and read thou knowest not what, And yet know whether thou art blest or not, By reading the same lines? Oh, then come hither, And lay my book, thy head, and heart together.

—John Bunyan.

Part 1

THE

PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT WHICH IS TO COME

In the Similitude of a Dream

THE FIRST PART

THE DIVISIONS OF THE FIRST PART

Part I, Section 1

FOREWORD

OF the great books which have been composed or partly written in prison, the Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan, is the best known and the most remarkable. Its author was a young man of thirty-two when he was thrown into the common jail at Bedford, England; he was past forty-four and middle-aged when he was released. His only offense against the law was preaching that which he believed to be true.

The dungeon in which he was immured was so vile that the worst prisons in our country are delightful places when compared with it. But here John Bunyan had ample time to think and to put his thoughts together. His education was of the poorest sort, and during his imprisonment he had access to but two volumes—the Bible and Fox's "Book of Martyrs." As he thought upon the great problems of existence, the idea of a story came, little by little, into his mind—a story in the form of a dream, a story of man's life regarded as a journey or pilgrimage.

By and by, he began to write such a story. He wrote it in the easy, simple language of the common people, and, without knowing it, produced one of the most beautiful prose poems ever written. After his release from prison his work was submitted to a printer who corrected its bad spelling and most of its faulty grammar, and in 1677 it was published.

The Pilgrim's Progress came into the world very modestly; but the charm of the story was such that, without advertisement, it soon grew into fame. Edition after edition was called for, and wherever the English language was known it became the subject of daily talk among the common people. For two hundred years or more no other English book was so generally known and read.

No other book of modern times has had a history so remarkable as this simple story "in the similitude of a dream." It has been translated into eighty languages. It has been turned into verse. It has been rewritten in scholarly English. It has been imitated a score of times in short-lived books whose very titles are forgotten. It has been remodeled and adapted to serve the most remarkable and diverse purposes. It has been dramatized and presented upon the stage as a beautiful and most impressive play. Notwithstanding all this, however, the original work, as first written in the dialect of the humble people of Bunyan's own time and station, remains unequaled and unharmed.

With the changed conditions of life in our own times the popularity of the Pilgrim's Progress has greatly waned. While it was formerly the first and perhaps the only story book read by thousands of children of all ages, it is now known to but few young people except by name. Its distinctively religious character has excluded it from the public schools and caused it to remain a closed book to the majority of twentieth-century readers. Tastes have changed, and long dialogues and disquisitions on faith and justification are no longer interesting or agreeable.

But suppose we divest the story of some of those qualities which may be described as old-fashioned and out of date—suppose that, retaining its essential peculiarities of style and diction, we repeat it without apparent didactic intent, simply as a pleasing narrative—and John Bunyan's dream story becomes a delightful fairy tale, poetic in form and surpassingly interesting.

Such was the intent with which the preparation of the present little book was undertaken. In pursuing this intent, an effort has been made to relate the story in a manner that will appeal to present-day readers simply because of its inherent interest. Wherever it has been possible within the limits of this plan, the words of Bunyan have been retained, and much care has been taken to preserve as far as possible the quaint and beautiful style of the original. Of course much abridgment has been necessary; and, in general, whatever the modern reader would be tempted to skip has been left out or rewritten.

Thus John Bunyan's dream story is presented to the school children of the twentieth century. May it prove to be as acceptable to them as, in its complete form, the Pilgrim's Progress was pleasing to the simple-hearted but adult readers of Bunyan's own time.

PROLOGUE

WOULDST thou divert thyself from melancholy? Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation, Or else be drownéd in thy contemplation? Dost thou love picking meat? Or, wouldst thou see A man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee? Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? Wouldst thou lose thyself and catch no harm, And find thyself again without a charm? Wouldst read thyself, and read thou knowest not what, And yet know whether thou art blest or not, By reading the same lines? Oh, then come hither, And lay my book, thy head, and heart together.

—John Bunyan.

THE

PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT WHICH IS TO COME

In the Similitude of a Dream

THE FIRST PART

FROM THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY FOR HIS BOOK

WHEN at first I took my pen in hand Thus for to write, I did not understand That I at all should make a little book In such a mode. Nay, I had undertook To make another; which, when almost done, Before I was aware, I this begun.

And thus it was: I, writing of the way And race of saints in this our gospel day, Fell suddenly into an allegory About their journey, and the 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 sparks that from the coals of fire do fly.

... But yet I did not think To show to all the world my pen and ink In such a mode. I only thought to make I knew not what; nor did I undertake Thereby to please my neighbor—no, not I; I did it my own self to gratify.

... Thus, I set pen to paper with delight, And quickly had my thoughts in black and white; For having now my method by the end, Still as I pulled, it came; and so I penned It 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 showed them other, that I might see whether They would condemn them, or them justify. 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 strait, 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.

—John Bunyan

As I walked through a great wilderness I came to a certain place where there was a Den, and I laid myself down in that place to sleep: and as I slept I dreamed a dream.

The Man with the Burden

THE MAN WITH THE BURDEN

I DREAMED; and I thought that I saw in my dream a man standing with his face turned away from his own house. He was clothed in rags, a book was in his hand, and a great burden was on his back.

Then I saw him open the book and read; and as he read, he wept and cried out, "What shall I do?"

By and by he turned and went into his house. His wife and children saw that he was in trouble, and they wondered; but he kept silent for a long time, and said not a word.

At last, when he could hold in no longer, he said, "Dear ones, do you see this great burden that is on my back? It is so heavy that I can hardly bear its weight."

But they could not see the burden, and they won at his words. "Dear father," they said, "you are very tired. When you have slept and are rested you will feel much better."

"Ah, no," he answered; "it is not sleep that will relieve me. For this book says that the city in which we live will surely be burned with fire; and unless we escape from it soon, we shall all perish. Do you wonder that I am distressed?"

They looked at him sorrowfully; for they feared that he had lost his mind. Then they persuaded him to lie down. But he could not sleep. All night long he tossed upon his bed groaning and weeping.

Very early in the morning he arose. His children came to him and said, "Dear father, how do you feel after your night's rest?"

"Worse and worse," he answered. "There is no rest for me while this heavy burden is on my back."

"We cannot see any burden," said his wife. "You are surely losing your mind."

The man looked at her sadly and then went out into the fields. There he walked back and forth all day, sometimes reading from his book and sometimes weeping most bitterly.

"What shall I do to be saved?" he cried; and he looked this way and that as if he would run. But he did not know which way to go.

At length an old man, with long white beard and a gentle face, came that way and saw him weeping.

"What is the matter?" asked the stranger, whose name was Evangelist. "Why are you crying?"

"Oh, sir," answered the man, "this book which I have in my hand tells me that unless I get rid of this heavy burden I shall surely die."

"Then why do you stand here?" asked Evangelist. "Why don't you go and get rid of it?"

"Because I don't know which way to go," said the man, still weeping.

Then Evangelist pointed with his finger towards the blue hills far, far away.

"Look!" he said. "Do you see that wicket gate?"

"No."

"Then do you see a shining light yonder in the distance?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"Well, then, keep that light always in view. Go straight towards it, and by and by you can see the wicket gate. When you have come to the gate, knock, and the one who keeps it will tell you what to do."

THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

THEN I saw in my dream that the man thanked Evangelist and began to run.

His wife and children, who were watching him, cried out to him to stop. "Come back, father," they called, "Come back and stay with us."

But he would not listen. He ran on, keeping his face towards the far-away hills and never losing sight of the shining light.

His neighbors saw him running, and they wondered what could ail him. Some pitied, and said, "He is mad." Some laughed, and said, "He is a fool." Others called out loudly, "Come back! Come back!"

Two of his friends, whose names were Obstinate and Pliable, ran after him. And, as they were light of foot, they soon overtook him.

"My friends," he said, "why do you run after me?"

"Oh," said the one whose name was Obstinate, "we are going to take you back home."

"No you will not," answered the runner. "I will not go back to that City of Destruction. I have started to a far better place, and I would like to persuade you to go with me."

"And leave all our friends and comforts behind us?" said Obstinate.

"Certainly," answered Graceless, for that was the man's name. "For my book tells me that in the glorious city which lies beyond those far-away mountains I shall find treasures much richer than those I am leaving behind."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Obstinate. "Who has ever seen that city? Will you go back with us? Or will you still behave like a fool?"

"Have a care, neighbor," said the other man, whose name was Pliable. "Perhaps he is right; and if so, he is wiser than we. I have heard of that Celestial City, and I have half a mind to go with him."

"Then go, if you wish," answered Obstinate. "I shall return to my own place. I'll have nothing to do with such foolish fellows."

So he turned and went back; and Graceless and Pliable ran on together across the plain.

"I am glad you are going with me," said Graceless.

"And I am glad to be your companion," said Pliable.

Then they talked as they ran; and Graceless told Pliable many wonderful things about the Celestial City towards which they were going. But the burden that was on his back bore heavily upon him, and he soon became weary. "Dear Pliable," he said, "I cannot go so fast. The way grows rougher, and this burden is hard to carry."

So they went on more slowly, but they kept their faces turned always towards the shining light and the distant mountains.

Soon they came to a great bog that seemed to fill the whole plain before them. It was called the Slough of Despond, and it was so deep with mire that no one had ever been able to build a road across it. But it looked so much like the solid ground that Graceless and Pliable fell into it before they were aware, and were soon waist deep in the mud.

"Dear Pliable, I am sinking still deeper," cried Graceless. "This burden is pressing me down."

"That proves that all you have been telling me is a mistake," said Pliable. "If the road to the Celestial City is like this, I want no more of it."

Then with a desperate struggle he managed to climb out of the bog at the place where he had fallen in. He was covered with mire, and very, very angry; and without trying to help his companion, or stopping to tell him good-by, he strode hastily back toward his home.

Graceless was left to struggle alone in the Slough of Despond. But he kept his face turned toward the distant hills, and even while floundering in the mire he now and then caught glimpses of the shining light.

By and by, he reached the farther side; but there the mire was deep, and his burden was so heavy that he could not climb out. For a long time he struggled there, but scarcely was he able to keep himself from sinking entirely in the dreadful mire.

At length, when his strength was almost gone, a man who heard his cries came down to the edge of the bog to look at him. This man's face was pleasant to see, and his arms were strong. His name was Help.

"How did you get into this bog?" he asked.

"I was on my way to yonder wicket gate," answered Graceless; "and before I saw my danger, I fell in."

"Give me your hand," said Help.

Graceless did so, and Help lifted him out of the mire and set his feet on solid ground.

"Now take courage," he said, "and go straight onward to the wicket gate."

"I thank you," said Graceless. "Now I feel stronger than before; and although this burden is still heavy, I will persevere."

And with that, he went on, keeping his face turned always toward the shining light.

WORLDLY WISEMAN

THEN I saw in my dream that Pliable went with all speed back to his own house. When his neighbors heard that he had returned, they went to visit him. They asked him all sorts of questions about his little journey, and he answered them truly.

"Well, I think you were very wise to come back home so quickly," said the first neighbor.

"You are not to be pitied. You were a fool for having anything to do with that man Graceless," said the second neighbor.

"But you showed yourself a great coward," said the third neighbor. "A man who undertakes a journey and then gives it up as soon as the road becomes rough is not to be depended upon in time of need."

Poor Pliable at first hung his head in shame. But when they began to tell stories about Graceless, and to laugh at what they called his folly, he joined them and laughed as loudly as the rest.

And there let us leave him.

For Graceless was still walking onward, and now and then he caught glimpses of the wicket gate, standing, white and bright, at the entrance to a mountain pass. But his burden was now so heavy that his going was very slow, and at every step he groaned with weariness.

By and by he came to a crossroad, and there a stranger met him. The man smiled when he saw Graceless, and spoke to him in a very pleasant manner.

"How now, my good fellow, where are you going?" he said. "And what are you doing with that big burden on your back?"

Graceless told him that he was on his way to the wicket gate, and that he hoped when he reached it to be shown how to get rid of his burden.

"Well," said the stranger, "I have spent many years in study, and my neighbors call me Worldly Wiseman because of my wisdom. Will you listen to me if I give you some advice?"

"Certainly," said Graceless; "for I need good counsel."

"Well, then, I advise you to get rid of that burden as soon as possible," said Wiseman.

"That is just what I wish to do," answered Graceless. "But I cannot take it off myself, and there is no man in our country who can remove it. And that is why I am going to the wicket gate."

"Who told you to go there?"

"A good man who seemed to me very gentle and loving. His name is Evangelist."

Worldly Wiseman laughed. "He is a fine fellow, indeed, to be giving advice to others," he said. "Why, he knows nothing at all, and yet he pretends to know everything."

"Well, I felt sure that he knew how I might get rid of this burden," answered Graceless. "He showed me this road."

"And a pretty road it is," sneered Mr. Wiseman. "There is not a more dangerous way in all the world. You have already met with some of its difficulties; for I see that the mud of the Slough of Despond is upon you."

"Yes, and I came near being buried in its mire," said Graceless.

"Well, if you keep on in that same road, you will meet with many worse things: hunger and cold, lions, dragons, darkness, and death. Take my advice, and don't cast your life away so foolishly," said Mr. Wiseman.

"Sir," answered Graceless, "this burden is so terrible to me that I am willing to face all sorts of dangers if only I can be delivered from it."

"How came you to get the burden in the first place?"

"By reading this book that I have in my hand."

"I thought so. That book has filled many a man's mind with foolish notions about things of which we know nothing."

"Well, I know one thing. I know that I would like to be eased from this burden."

Worldly Wiseman took Graceless by the hand, and spoke to him very gently.

"Do you see yonder village at the farther end of this broad road?" he asked.

"Yes, I see it," answered Graceless.

"Well, the name of that village is Morality," said Mr. Wiseman. "I have lived there for many years, and it is a very pleasant place, indeed. There is a lawyer there, a near neighbor of mine, who knows all about burdens of every kind. His name is Legality, and I would advise you to go and see him at once."

"Are you sure that he can remove this burden of mine?" asked Graceless.

"Most certainly he can," answered Mr. Wiseman; "and he will do much more. He will put you in the way of getting a home for yourself in our village. Then you may send for your wife and children, and live happily among honest neighbors all the rest of your life."

"Oh, how delightful that would be!" cried Graceless.

"It would certainly be better than trying to reach that wicket gate," said Mr. Wiseman.

"I think so, too," said Graceless. "Please show me the way to that honest lawyer's house."

"Do you see yonder high hill?" asked Mr. Wiseman.

"Yes, I see it very well."

"Then follow the road which leads by that hill. The first house you come to is the house of Mr. Legality."

Graceless thanked him and bade him good-by. Then he turned into the broad road on his left, and walked as fast as his burden would let him towards the hill which had been pointed out to him. It was not more than a mile away, and he soon found himself at its foot.

But what a fearful hill it was! It was now a great mountain, and it seemed to hang right over the road, and Graceless feared every moment that it would topple over upon him. He stood still and trembled. There was no house in sight, no shelter of any kind. The earth shook; flashes of fire came out of the mountain; he knew not which way to go.

"Oh, that I had not listened to the words of Worldly Wiseman!" he cried.

Then, as he lifted his eyes, whom did he see but Evangelist coming to meet him.

"What are you doing here, my friend?" asked the good man.

Graceless could not say a word.

"Are you not the man whom I found crying in the field by the City of Destruction? And didn't I show you the way to the wicket gate?" asked Evangelist.

"Yes, dear sir, you showed me the way," answered the poor man.

"Then how is it that I find you here?" asked Evangelist.

Graceless told him how he had met Mr. Worldly Wiseman at the crossing of the roads, and how he had been persuaded to seek the house of the lawyer Legality. And when he had finished, he cried, "Woe is me now, for I am undone!"

But Evangelist took him by the hand and said, "This Worldly Wiseman, who pretended to be so friendly to you, had no desire to help you. On the contrary, he wished only to turn you out of the way and send you to destruction. For that reason he advised you to go to Mr. Legality, who has no power whatever to remove your burden."

"Alas! Alas!" cried Graceless, "I see now my error. I ought not to have listened to that man. I ought not to have turned off from the straight way which leads toward the shining light."

"Surely you did very wrong," answered Evangelist, "and you deserve to suffer for your folly."

Then there was a great rumbling in the earth, as though words were coming from it; fire flashed from the crevices in the rocks; and the mountain shook from top to bottom.

Graceless expected nothing but death. But seeing the gentle face of Evangelist, he took courage.

"Sir," he asked, "is there no hope? Is there no way of escape? May I not be forgiven? And may I not return and go up to the wicket gate?"

Evangelist answered him very kindly, "Yes, if you are truly sorry for your error, you may again seek the true way. The man at the gate will receive you, for he has good will for all men."

"Then I will go back," said Graceless.

Evangelist kissed him, gave him one smile, and bade him Godspeed.

And Graceless went on with haste, and spoke to no man by the way.

THE WICKET GATE

THEN I saw in my dream that the man Graceless came, by and by, to the wicket gate. Now, over the gate there was written,

KNOCK, AND IT SHALL BE OPENED UNTO YOU

So he knocked, more than once or twice. And as he knocked he kept saying to himself, "May I now enter? Will he that is within open to sorry me?"

By and by there came to the gate a man with a grave but kindly face, whose name was Good-will. He looked out, and when he saw a stranger standing there, he asked, "Who are you? And what do you wish?"