he discovered that it was in the Apocrypha: and yet, both it, and the hope it created "abode" with him all the time. The fact is, the sublimity of the appeal,-"Look at the generations of old, and see,"-had, when he first read it, made him look along the line of sacred history with an eagle-glance, which fell at the same time upon similar appeals, and upon corroborating proofs; and thus he was sure that it was, substantially, the word of God.

He was, however, almost as much pleased with the way in which it came to him now, as with what it said. It came " SO suddenly," "so fresh," and "fell with such weight upon his spirit, that it was,' he says, 66 as if it talked to me.' Now, although it is impossible to begrudge him this pleasure, it is equally impossible not to fear for a mind, which attaches so much importance to the manner in which truth presents itself. Such a mind is sure to keep on the outlook for sudden and accidental discoveries, which shall dazzle and penetrate like lightning, rather than for sober truths which, like diamonds, brighten by rubbing. Bunyan affords a melancholy exemplification of this. He loved impulses, as "Ephraim loved idols; and after them he did go.”

It is, however, both instructive and pleasing to observe, that the great impulse which floated his stranded spirit clean over the bar of suspected reprobation, was derived from a great general principle of the Word of God;-viz. the uniform and uninterrupted experience of the church, that none ever trusted in God, and were disappointed. This fact, more than any explanations ever yet given of the divine sovereignty in showing mercy, has helped many who, like Bunyan, have stranded themselves upon the same bar. Perhaps no one ever got fairly over, by any other means.

Bunyan was not long over this bar, when a new one presented itself. "After this," he says, "that other doubt did come with strength upon me,-But how if the day of grace be past and gone? How if you have overstood the time of mercy? Now I remember that one day as I was walking in the country, I was much in the thoughts of this: But how if the day of grace be past? And to aggravate my trouble, the tempter presented to my mind those good people of Bedford, and suggested this to me, that these being converted already, they were all that God would save in those parts, and that I came too late, for those had got the blessing before me.

"Now I was in great distress; thinking, in very deed, that

this might well be so." He means that, in his own case, it might justly have been so. And he was right! For although he had sinned much through ignorance, he had also trifled much through sheer obstinacy. Many, indeed, have resisted the strivings of the Holy Spirit longer than Bunyan did; but he had resisted long enough to justify that Spirit, had he ceased to strive with him even then. However wrong a view, therefore, he took of the length of the day of grace, he did only right when he counted himself "far worse than a thousand fools for standing off thus long, and spending so many years in sin." Indeed, had he not given way to despair again, and thus "limited the Holy One," his shame and regret would not have been too great, even when he went up and down the country bemoaning his sad condition, and saying to himself, "Oh, that I had turned sooner! Oh, that I had turned seven years ago! It made me almost angry with myself to think, that I should have no more wit, but to trifle away my time."

In all this, Bunyan neither erred nor exaggerated. He did both, however, when he rashly concluded, that "seven years' had exhausted the long-suffering of God. This was as hasty and unwarranted a conclusion, as that of his non-election. Accordingly, it had the same overwhelming effect upon both his mind and body, and that for a "long time." He "vexed himself with this fear, until he was scarce "able to take one step more under its weight."

He got over this fear, as he did over the former, by a great general principle of the gospel, and not by any given expla nation of the particular difficulty which had originated the fear. The wide and warm commission of Christ, " Compel them to come in, that my house may be filled; and yet there is room," convinced him that the door was not shut, nor the patience of God worn out. These words, especially, "And yet there is room," were, he says, "sweet words to me; in the light and encouragement of (which) I went a pretty while : for truly I thought that by them, I saw there was place enough in heaven for me."

He might have walked much longer in this light, had he looked only to its place and position in the firmament of revelation. But no: it was neither the cast nor the habit of his mind to be satisfied with mere truth, however sweet. Accordingly, he sweetened these sweet words thus: "the comfort (of them) was the more, when I thought that the Lord Jesus should think on me so long ago, and that He should speak those words on

purpose for my sake; for I did think, verily, that He did on purpose speak them to encourage me withal. Truly I thought that when he did speak them, he then did think of me; knowing the time would come, that I should be afflicted with fear that there was no place left for me in his bosom. He did (therefore) before, speak this word, and leave it upon record, that I might find help thereby against this vile temptation. This I then verily believed." Poor Bunyan! One of his reasons for believing thus was, that the words "broke in upon" his mind. Another reason was, that they broke in "just about the same place" where he had received his former" encouragement." He laid much stress upon these accidents, or coincidences; little imagining, that he would have got more comfort from the words, had he overlooked or forgotten both how they came, and where they came, to him. But this was not his way. The ripest fruit of the Tree of Life was not sweet enough for him then, unless it fell at his feet by some happy accident, or was wrapped up in other leaves than its own. In like manner, it was not enough for him to meet with truths which were lights shining in a dark place: they must both dart and dazzle, and that suddenly, in order to make "the day-star" of hope arise in his heart.

We, indeed, have no reason to regret that this was the turn of his mind. It was injurious to his own peace and piety at the time; but it prepared for us the vivid characters and scenery of his immortal Allegories ;-into which he admitted no tame nor indefinite beings or things. In writing his Pilgrims and Holy War, he was for ever on the outlook for persons who would strike the mind at once, and keep up attention to the last. Accordingly, all his leading characters in both works, evidently darted into his own mind, and were as welcome to him because of their sudden entrance, as for their perfect truth. He himself, however, paid dearly for the pleasure he was thus prepared to give us.

It is a curious fact, that one of the first uses he made of the hope and peace he derived from the ample "room" he now saw for himself in heaven, was to allegorize the clean and unclean beasts of the Jews: the very last thing which any ordinary man would have tried, or dreamt of, when but just emerged from the Slough of Despond, and only half dry from its miry clay and cold waters. He says, indeed, that he "was almost made, about this time, to see something concerning the beasts that Moses counted clean and unclean." He did not require my*

much forcing for such work! The difficulty was to keep him from it. I only regret this, however, on his account. This taste, like the former, prepared him to produce for us, his "Solomon's Temple Spiritualized," and his "Heavenly Jerusalem Opened." It led him also then, although by a roundabout way, to the sober examination of more suitable truths. The Tinker was, however, no bad Talmudist, even from the first. "I thought," he says, "those beasts were types of men: the clean, types of the people of God; but the unclean, such as were the children of the wicked one. Now I read, that the clean beasts chewed the cud: that is, thought I, they show us we must feed upon the word of God. They also parted the hoof: I thought that signified, we must part, if we would be saved, with the ways of ungodly men.

"And also in reading further about them, I found, that though we did chew the cud as the hare, yet if we did not part the hoof like the swine, or walked with claws like a dog, yet, if we did not chew the cud as the sheep, we are still, for all that, but unclean. For, I thought the hare to be a type of those that talk of the word, yet walk in the ways of sin: and that the swine was like him that parted with his outward pollution, but still wanteth the word of faith, without which there could be no way of salvation, let a man be never so devout."

This allegorizing, if less profound than some of the Talmudical, is more practical than most of it. It led also to better work. "After this," he says, "I found by reading the word, that those that must be glorified with Christ in another world, must be called by him here: called to the partaking of a share in his work and righteousness, and to the comforts and firstfruits of his Spirit, and to a peculiar interest in all those heavenly things, which do indeed prepare the soul for that rest and house of glory, which is in heaven above." These sound conclusions were drawn from the tenor of Scripture, and under the influence of what Bunyan calls "a sound sense of death and judgment," which abode continually in his view at this time. This deep sense of his responsibility and mortality, "outweighed" also many temptations from without and within, "to go back again " to the pleasures of the world. He also thought often of Nebuchadnezzar, and said to himself, "If this great man had all his portion in this world, one hour in hell-fire would make him forget it all." This consideration was "a great help " to him, in believing that the pleasures of sin were only for a season.

With these sober and solemn truths before him, Bunyan might be expected, now, to eschew dark suspicions, as he did sins. But no: the necessity of being "called by Christ," threw him upon the question, Am I called? just as former pryings had thrown him upon the question of election. This would be surprising in almost any other man: for what could be more probable than both the calling and the election of a man, who was intensely intent upon obtaining a holy salvation? We see this: but Bunyan did not see it his own case. Accordingly he was soon "at a very great stand" again, "not knowing what to do," if he were not called. He put the case, "If I be not called, thought I, what then can do me good? None but those who are effectually called, inherit the kingdom of heaven."

In the lips of many, this argument is a mere excuse for doing nothing. Accordingly, it is in general uttered with a pert flippancy, which proves that they care nothing about the matter. Bunyan, however, was as serious and solemn as he was unwise, when he argued thus. It was not to exempt himself from the duty of seeking to be called by Grace, nor from the diligence necessary in order to make his "calling sure,' that he started the question. His perfect honesty must not, however, be allowed to hide his folly or his weakness, in this instance. He knew just as little about the length of his life, or the continuance of his reason, as he did of his calling and election. It would not, therefore, have been a whit more unwise, had he tormented himself by asking,-"What if God call me away by death, or leave me to go mad, before I can seek for mercy? None but the living and the sane can pray for salvation: unless, therefore, God has decreed the continuance of my life and reason, what then can do me good?' Any one sees the absurdity of taking up the question of time and talents in this way. And it is equally absurd and useless, to make either "Calling or Election," a preliminary question, in personal religion: for no man can answer it in that form or connexion, and God will not.

It had, however, one good effect upon Bunyan: it made the subject of a special call (or conversion) unspeakably dear to him. Hence he exclaims, "Oh, how I now loved those words that spake of a Christian's calling; as when the Lord said to one Follow me,' and to another, Come after me.' Oh, thought I, that he would say so to me too! How gladly would I run after him! I cannot now express with what