CONDEMNED, BUT NOT GUILTY
Ten thousand deaths in every nerve
I'd rather suffer than deserve.
“ONLY for a little time, Mr. White! I have been sick like to death, and my baby died. He will be pining for the sight of his little blind maiden! Ye will not say me nay?" pleaded a woman, wan and pinched with recent sickness and distress. 'Twas Elizabeth Bunyan, the second wife of the tinker, who had moved some five years since from Elstow into Bedford. His gentle Mary had passed away, leaving him with four young children, the eldest, Mary, now a maiden ten years of age, being the blind babe of whom in the second chapter he had spoken to Rogers. He had married again, now some two years since, another wife; not like the drooping lily that had gladdened his home, but a brave, earnest, loving spirit, rose-like in fragrance and devotion to him. She stood outside the jail door in Bedford, now some three weeks after the incidents recorded in the last chapter, leading her blind Mary by the hand, seeking admission from the under-jailer, who looked through the little barred windows in the strong iron-clamped door.
It was not in vain that she pleaded; in a few moments she passed the portal, now preserved in Bedford, that then shut in the prisoners' day-room with the security of its three transverse layers of oak, secured firmly by iron bolts, and was led by Bunyan to his tiny sleeping apartment, the grated window of which looked out into Silver Street.
After a few tender inquiries in reference to the blind child, Bunyan briefly recounted the incidents of his arrest that have already been detailed in the fourth chapter, and then he proceeded: “As I waited with the constable outside Harlington House, I prayed much for thee, and my heart did melt when I thought what harm might come to thee because of me; and when my friends came back saying that Mr. Justice Wingate would release me if I did but say a few words, to which I replied heartily, `that if the words were such as could be said with a clear conscience, I would say them with all my heart'; and back to the house we went. As we went up the walk, and into the great parlor, I lifted up my soul to God, praying that I might be kept from doing or saying aught that might dishonor Him, or hurt my own soul, or discourage any of His saints. And when we had entered the room there was that Mr. Foster who owed us the money he would not pay. When he beheld me he lifted the candle, for it was now night, and made as though he would have kissed me. And with soft words and honeyed speech he asked for my health, and why I was there, and that with many gentle phrases that made me think of the cat patting the mouse she will presently devour. And he bade me not call the people any more, but just follow my calling, in which he knew none more skilful, and I should have his favor and go home speedily. But when I could not refuse to preach wherever any might desire to hear me, he called me Papist, and I saw the hook glitter under the painted flies. He said, moreover, that none but foolish and ignorant people ever came to hear me; to which I answered that I am thankful therefore, for ignorant and foolish people had more need of teaching than others; so at last he changed his tone, and said I must go to prison, 'that affliction might bring thee to thy senses. For we love thee, Brother Bunyan,' quoth he; 'the king loves thee, and so do I; and we must send thee to jail to teach thee that thou must not preach about the country.' I had much ado not to cry out to him that I went to prison with the peace of God, but I held my tongue, for I felt that I was upon the bosom of love, and that thou wast kept also safely in the arms of Jesus.
“On the morning after we sent to Justice Compton of Elstow, but he refused to release me, though I had broken no law whatsoever; still I am content that, if my lying here will serve the cause of God, I will lie here till the moss grows upon my eyebrows and my flesh drops from my bones. Let it be as God will.”
“True, beloved, but we will do our utmost; the house is so dull without thee. Thy little Mary sits pining for thy voice, and the other two are often crying for father. It goes to my heart to see them craving for thee. And some that I thought better off will not pay what they owe thee. William Swinton, the sexton of St. Cuthbert, owes thee a matter of five pounds, ye know; now he says not a penny will he pay thee. Yet I am proud of thee.
Yield not, John, for we will beg from door to door before thou shalt yield for our sakes, to do what ye feel to be wrong in the sight of God. I pray much that we may see thee again by our fireside, and I look through the stone lattice often longing to see thy brave face through the pane; but I pray more that thou mightest stand fast, like David against the giant, that thou shalt one day, too, conquer. Think not of us, but be firm.”
“Aye, that I will," said Bunyan, who had nestled the blind girl in his arms; "but what will my Mary do if her father has to die for the truth?”
“Do, father? Why, love thee all the more, and pray for them that shall kill thee, and come as quickly as I may to be with thee. Oh, father! I shall look upon thy dear face in Heaven! How I strive to picture thee; but I should like to see thee as thou really art. When I feel thy warm breath upon my cheek and rest in thy arms I feel I fear naught and want naught. But, oh, father! my mother taught me that thou art Christ's servant, and I am proud that thou art called to suffer, while the great ones deny the Lord.”
“My little maiden, then, loves my Christ?" asked Bunyan, bending with tearful eyes over the clear, white face, radiant with love the eyes could not speak.
“Aye, father, I have loved Him a little for a long time, but I have loved Him, I cannot tell how much, since these dark days began. When mother and I sat trembling and wondering how thou wert faring when from home in the time of trouble, how I prayed for thee, and I felt thy God was my God, and I would serve Him too.”
“But 'tis not enough, darling, to say that ye love Christ. What about thy sins?”
“Oh, father, I have confessed them all and repent of them, and I do accept Jesus as my Savior. I feel more certain every day that He has forgiven my sins. Is it not sweet to feel this, we are tied together by a bond that nothing can ever break?”
“Aye, it is, dear one; and in thy love and the love of thy mother I feel brave and strong. Ye help me not a little to stand without blenching in the time of trial.”
“The chief jailer is coming, Master Bunyan; it were better ye went now, good mistress. I will strain a point that ye come in again, “said the under-jailer, looking tenderly upon the blind girl.
“We are going, Master White," replied Elizabeth Bunyan, taking a hasty leave of her husband, who preserved his composure until the iron door closed behind his wife and child with a heavy thud; and then he flung himself upon his straw couch in an agony of prayer. What had he done to deserve such treatment? Had he robbed, slain, or refused to pay his taxes? No, he had merely prayed with a few poor people, to whom he purposed reading a chapter from the Bible, and explaining it withal. For this deadly offense, some five weeks afterward, in the month of January, 1661, he was placed at the bar in the ancient chapel of Herne.
Among the five magistrates upon the bench he readily detected the well-known faces of Sir Henry Chester and Sir George Blundell, whom he had so heavily offended while living at Elstow. But at least he might expect justice from men who owed so much to him.
The chairman, Sir John Kelynge, was an old acquaintance. During the times of the Commonwealth he had fawned upon the men in power, using the current religious phrases, and passing for a man who professed much religion. His overbearing, arrogant temper now and then shone out through the disguise; but few suspected the depth of his hypocrisy.
Before this person, now a bitter enemy of the truth he once professed to love, John Bunyan, laborer, was indicted for devilishly abstaining from attending church, and for upholding unlawful meetings or conventiclers. When asked "Why he did not come to the parish church," Bunyan replied, that he did not find this duty commanded in the Word of God.
“Tut, tut! but we are commanded to pray," burst out Justice Kelynge.
“But not by the prayer book," replied Bunyan.
“Sirrah, get thee a fool's cap! Ye know the prayer book hath been since the apostles' time," sneered Kelynge.
“He serves Beelzebub," interposed Chester; "I know the knaves and their peddler’s French and country trash. Marry, the world has come to a pretty pass when tinkers presume to teach. That belongs to those who are taught, and are high in station, good fellow.”
“But Jesus Christ thought not so," replied Bunyan, "else He had not chosen fishermen to preach His Gospel.”
“A truce upon thy prating! Dost thou think to catch me, ye sorry knave? Let me teach thee a little wholesome gospel. Let him that hath received a gift of tinkering mend his pots and kettles, and I will see to it that thou dost. But no more of thy talk. Thou speakest as if we were thine equals upon the ale bench. Hear your judgment: 'Ye must be had back to prison, and lie there for the three months following. Then if ye will not leave thy so-called preaching (marry me, a tinker preaching, forsooth!) and go to church, ye shall be banished the realm; and if, after ye be sentenced, ye be caught within the realm, ye shall stretch by the neck for it; I tell you plainly.'
Now, jailer, take him hence.”
“As to the preaching, I am at a point with you. If I were out of prison to-day, I will preach the Gospel tomorrow by the help of God," replied Bunyan, as the jailer rudely pulled him from the bar. And so to prison for twelve weary years went the tinker, who dared to think for himself, and arrived at other conclusions than those asserted by such men as King Charles the Second, Clarendon, and Justice Kelynge.
Sometimes, by the favor of the jailer, the rigor of his captivity was relaxed, and he was allowed not merely to visit his family, but to undertake longer journeys to London, Reading, or elsewhere. Once, when absent from jail, he became so unaccountably uneasy, that though the time had not arrived at which he had promised the jailer to return, he resolved to do so at once. As the hour was late, the jailer was surprised to see him, and complained of being called out of his bed to readmit him. But one of his enemies, suspecting the lenity with which Bunyan was treated arrived shortly after, and demanded to know whether the prisoners were all safe. Being assured that they were, he went in to ask whether Bunyan was in custody. "Yes," was the reply. "Let me see him," imperatively demanded the visitor. Bunyan was called, and immediately appeared in answer to the summons. When the inquisitor had departed, the jailer said to his prisoner, "You may go out when you like, for you know better when to return than I can tell you.”