SILENCED, BUT TEACHING
We want our Bunyan to show the way
Through the Sloughs of Despond that are round us to-day
“SHALL I run or stay? Methinks my Elizabeth hath some claim to be thought on; and if I go to prison what will become of my poor blind Mary? Poor little lamb, they will neglect thee; scorn thee, perhaps beat thee. Oh, I cannot bear it, that thou shouldst suffer. Yet I am bidden to go upon the forlorn hope of liberty; and what dismay will it cause among the servants of truth if I now fail? After speaking stoutly, and bidding them preach, in spite of King or priest, it were foul dishonor should I now yield, and to a threat. If I desert at the shaking of a piece of paper (for the justices' warrant is no more), others, when they are in real straits, will deny the Lord that bought them. Nay, by God's grace, though it mean the tearing of my flesh from my bones, I will do my duty, whatever may come to me and mine; Lord, defend my wife, and be a father to my poor, poor, helpless, blind child!”
The speaker was a tall man, somewhat large boned, but well proportioned, about thirty years of age. His red locks falling back from a broad and lofty forehead, beneath which sparkled keen eyes, tender with sympathy and affection, full nostrils, and a mouth, large but winning, shaded by a slight mustache after the ancient manner; altogether a man not to be despised, frightened, or easily forgotten, though he was only John Bunyan, the tinker of Bedford. His large toil-stained hands grasped firmly the buttons of his tightly fitting tunic, which, with a large collar and knee breeches, formed the accepted dress of the Puritan party at that time. As he continued his walk beneath the elm trees that fringed the meadow at Lower Samsell, he stopped, as a stranger hastily joined him.
“Uncle Edward! what brings thee from Copple Wood-End? Hath thy master, Sir Oliver, sent thee?”
“Aye, John, he hath warning, or Sir Samuel had, that if thou wilt preach this day, the justices are determined to cast thee into jail. 'Tis Mr. Wingate who bears a grudge against all our friends, and seems to have a special spite against thee. I thought to find thee at thy cousin John's at Stretly, where thy wife thought thou were staying; but when I rode there they told me thou hadst left them and intended preaching here.”
“Yea, I left them for they have gold and goods I would not imperil; the rich are slow to become sufferers for the truth," replied John.
“But why shouldst thou risk thy life-for it may come to that?" interposed the owner of the meadow and of the farmhouse near, in which the preaching was to take place, and who had now just joined Bunyan and his uncle. "Be ruled, goodman Bunyan, I pray thee. Thy rich cousins will have none of thee, thy father cannot (and would not if he could) care for thy little ones, why shouldst thou leave them to the cruelty of them that will do them wrong for thy sake?”
“Nay, I leave them to no man, nor do I crave any man's love for them. They are in the promise, and God will be eyes to the blind, or mayhap bring her with me speedily to Heaven. I cannot for the sake of wife and family draw back, for fear I bring upon them and myself the curse and vengeance of God.”
“Well said, nephew," replied his uncle. "I love to see a man scorn to show his back when the rush of battle comes. Stand thou fast as we did at Naseby-our God be with thee. I may not stay, fare thee well!”
“Farewell, uncle! bear me in your prayers," replied. Bunyan. "See, neighbor Smith, along the Westoning Road, the Bosquains are coming; and you is the Carrol family from Flitwick. Beneath the elms, from Harlington, are many folk, and the path across the fields from Higher Samsell and Pulloxhill is dotted with friends hastening to the preaching. Let us within and be not daunted. Our cause is good, we need not be ashamed of it. To preach God's Word is so good a work that we shall be well rewarded if we suffer for it. Let us stand fast in the service of Christ.”
Crossing the drawbridge over the moat, which was lifted at nightfall, the two entered the large farmhouse kitchen, which was soon filled with farm laborers from Lower Samsell itself, and other friends from the villages near.
When the company had assembled, John Bunyan began with prayer. No cathedral, radiant in color and glorious in carving, ever echoes to such heartfelt accents as burst and swept from the tinker's lips that morning. It seemed as if all the floodgates of his soul were opened, and every inch of his being had become musical in communion with God.
Said the farmer to his wife long after, "I feared for him mightily until he began his prayer, and then I was borne above fear, and it seemed as if the tinker were Elijah in the power and might of the Lord! No wonder that he was so brave, when he could pray as he did then. It seemed like the whirlwind that swept off my terror like the dry leaves off the trees. Would that we were like him!”
“And when he ceased praying, and opened his little Bible," rejoined his wife, "I mind the way that he read his text: `Dost thou believe on the Son of God?' I felt that, whatever I did he himself believed with all his soul. And when the constable and Mr. Wingate's man burst upon us, breaking in the door, never shall I forget the manner in which he prepared to go with them.”
“Aye, wife, and do you mind that he bade us not to be discouraged, but rejoice that we were accounted worthy of being sufferers for Christ? `But for grace,' said he, 'we might have been apprehended as murderers or the like, but now it was because we were Christians, and 'twas better to suffer wrong than to inflict it.' God be praised that we ever looked upon his honest face.”
“It is so, good man," replied his wife; "he brought a blessing to our house, our son had not been the man he is had it not been for Bunyan' s noble courage at the justices'. Tell it me again, George; it makes me strong to hear it.”
“Why, when we went to Mr. Wingate's I was surety that Bunyan should come the next day to be tried. We brought him home here, and he lay in the standing bed in our loft that night; but it seemed as if he slept not, for the men that lay in the loft hard by heard him in prayer until the sun rose, and they would speak of it long after when they followed the plow. I went with him to the constable, and we then came to the justice. Our George followed us to see what would chance, and when they opened the heavy gate at Harlington House, he slipped in with us. I shall not forget soon the great parlor, with its carved walls and dark oaken beams, and the proud face of the master as he sat in his great chair. His lip curled as if to say, 'A tinker!' and he asked haughtily what weapons were found upon us, and how many were gathered together. But when he heard that we were but few in number, and that not so much as a sword was to be found upon any who were at the preaching, he seemed like one who was set fast on a slough, and knew not what to do. At length Mr. Wingate turned to Bunyan and asked him what did he in Lower Samsell, and why did he not spend his time in mending pots as his father had done before him.
“To which Bunyan made him answer that he did follow his calling, but that he also, without confusion or neglect, did strive to instruct people to forsake their sins and close in with Christ; at which speech the justice started from his seat, and swore fiercely that he would break the neck of all such meetings. To this threat Bunyan made answer, that it might be so. But when the bond for his appearance was being made out, Justice Wingate told Merten, 'I thought we were bound to keep Bunyan from preaching, or else the bonds would be forfeited. "But I cannot but preach,' quoth John, 'and if such be the bonds I shall of a certainty break them.' Upon which the justice bade them send him to rot in jail.
“Justice Wingate swung himself off to his wine, when in came his father-in-law, Dr. Lindall, the vicar, who fell a taunting and making mock of us. We answered him naught, for fear of being fined, but John Bunyan replied, that he came not to talk to Dr. Lindall, but to Mr. Wingate, at which the parson seemed as if he had gotten a victory. But when he began to jest about a tinker who left his pots and kettles to mend men's lives, and asked if any could prove that it was lawful for such a one to preach, our tinker soon silenced him with the words of the Apostle Peter, 'As every man hath received the gift, even so let him minister the same.' To which Lindall made no reply, until he said with a sneer, 'Yea, I have heard of your kin, one Alexander, the coppersmith, that did much disturb the apostles; ye are of his lineage.'
'And I have heard of ye,' answered Bunyan; 'there were many priests that had their hands in the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ, for a man may be no Christian even though he live in a parsonage and read prayers. 'Tis not being called holy, but believing in the Lord Jesus Christ, that will save the soul.'
“'Yea, ye are one of the scribes that make long prayers and devour widows' houses,' hissed the parson; to which John answered truly that if Dr. Lindall got no more by his preaching than he, the tinker did, the vicar had not been so rich as he was; but after that he deigned no reply, and so they sent him to jail for preaching. Yet as we went down the road we met Brethren Foster of Hitchin, and Marsom of Luton, who would have us stay until they had tried to alter the justices' mind.
“While they went to the house, Bunyan waited with the constable, and I returned home; hither also the constable brought him, after the setting in of the night.
“The next morning I went with them to prison, along the thirteen miles of road that lead to Bedford. Through Wilstead we walked; Bunyan teaching us as we went along or answering our questions, and seeking to strengthen our boy and I in the faith. I mind me that when we came nigh to Elstow it seemed as if he might break down. When he beheld the tree-tops he heaved a sigh that was heart deep; and when we crossed the little stream and saw the quiet street before us in which he had played as a boy, cold drops stood upon his forehead, and he closed his eyes and walked speechless, and as if he were in inward agony. At the entrance of the green he made pause: 'Here,' said he, 'God appeared to me when in my folly I ran riot to commit sin. In you Moot Hall, where I danced with the maidens, He met with my soul; not an inch of the sward but hath known my heart's agony when I sought peace and found it not. Now I go bound, now knowing what shall befall me, but ready to seal my testimony with my blood. Wondrous grace, to save such a sinner as I have been!' But when we came nigh to the cottage in which he did once live before he went into Bedford town, out of the door came his old father, who left his forge to look upon his son. For the old man, because the forge was at the cottage end, had come to live in the house where John once abode. And the neighbors gathered round; men who had known him as a boy; some blaming, and some bidding him submit to the king; but all full of pity to see their gossip now bound and going to prison in the pride of his strength. His father said little, but looked earnestly with pity upon him, saying sadly, 'God help thee, son! Would that thou hadst never meddled with things above thee. Why didst thou not do as I did at thy age? The tinker's is a merry life when his work is done—there is the ale bench and a good song—what need to vex thy brain about things the parsons should look to? Let us mind our solder, and leave praying to them that be paid for it. The hammer makes music enough until one may lay it by to hear a merry song.' Whereat his son groaned heavily, and wept at his father's blindness, and so he went on until we came into Bedford. My heart failed me when I saw the heavy iron door of the prison close behind him, and with a sad heart I came down Jail Lane to seek his wife to give her cheer in her sorrow. Aye, 'tis a mystery why such a good man should suffer so, and many evil ones take no harm, but ever prosper in the world. It passes me quite.”
“It passes thee! Of course it does," replied his wife. "It passes my child why I do many things; but I know the reason. You never tell your reasons to your men, but you say, 'Bill, go down to the five acre and tend the stock,' or, 'Tom, go ye and hoe the turnips,' or, 'Take your flails, lads, and thresh the wheat'; and why shouldn't God keep His reasons to Himself. He is not bound to tell us why He does things; perhaps His reasons would pass our minds, and so He doesn't tell us.”
“Yea, good wife, there are always good reasons, I trow, and I suppose, like good servants, we ought to do our Master's bidding, and not be always bothering to know why. We be told to do it. But 'tis time the kine came from the pasture. Let us not forget our duties; but do as Mr. Bunyan would bid us, and make our farm like he said once a Christian's heart should be, and what the temple was—full of proofs of the loving God that owned it; and so to work, because we shall pray the better when the day is done.”