told you, one sunshine morning, I don't 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 despond in his mind; a slough that he carried every where 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

the Gate.

a great while before he would venture to knock. His behaviour at 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 got 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 hammer that hanged on the Gate in his hand, and gave a small rap or two; then one opened to him, but he shrunk back as before. He that opened stepped out after him, and said, Thou trembling one, what wantest thou? With that he fell down to the ground. He that spoke to him wondered to see him so faint. So he said to him, "Peace be to thee; up, for I have set open the door to thee; come in, for thou art blessed." With that he got up, and went in trembling; and when that he was in, he was ashamed to show 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 went on till he came to our house; but as he behaved himself at the Gate, so he did at my Master, the Interpreter's door. He lay thereabout in the cold His behaviour at a good while, before he would adventure to call; the Interpreter's 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 conductor, because he was himself so chicken-hearted a man; and yet, for all that, he was afraid to call at the door. So he lay up and down thereabouts, till, poor man, he was almost starved; yea, so great was his dejection, that though he saw several others, for knocking, get 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 showed the thing to our Lord; so he sent me out again to entreat him to come in, but I dare say I had hard work to do it. At last he came in, and I will say that for my

door.

How he was enter. tained there.

He is a little en

Lord, he carried it wonderful lovingly to him. There were but a 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 get some heart, and to be a couraged at the In- little more comfortable; for my Master, you must terpreter's house. know, is one of very tender bowels, especially to them that are afraid; wherefore he carried it 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.

He was greatly afraid when he saw

the gibbet, but cheery when he

saw the Cross.

When we were come to where the three fellows were 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 he 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 these; his fear was about his acceptance at last.

Dumpish at the house Beautiful.

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 of the place; but he was ashamed to make himself much in 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 ancient things, and to be pondering them in his mind. He told me afterward that he loved to be in those two houses from which he came last, to wit, at the Gate and that of the Interpreter, but that he durst not be so bold as to ask.

ley of Humiliation.

When we went also from the house Beautiful Pleasant in the Val- down the hill into the Valley of Humiliation, he went down as well as ever I saw a 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 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

Lam. iii. 27-29

morning by break of day, tracing and walking to and fro in the Valley.

But when he was come to the entrance of the Much perplexed in Valley of the Shadow of Death, I thought I should the Valley of the have lost my man; not for that he had any inclina- Shadow of Death. tion to go back, that he always abhorred: but he was ready to die for fear. Oh! 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, it was enough to encourage them to come and fall upon us.

But this I took very great notice of, that this Valley was as quiet, when we went through it, as ever I knew it before or since. I suppose those enemies here had now a special check from our Lord, and a command not to meddle, until Mr. Fearing had passed over it.

His behaviour at

It would be too tedious to tell you of all; we will therefore only mention a passage or two more. When he was come to Vanity-fair, I thought he would have fought Vanity-fair. with all the men in the Fair; I feared there we should have been both knocked on the head, so hot was he against their fooleries. Upon the Enchanted Ground he was 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 remarkable: 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, I shall, I shall. Then parted we asunder, and I saw him no more.

Hon. Then it seems he was well at last.

His boldness 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 himself, 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?

* Psalm lxxxviii. ↑ Rom. xiv. 21. 1 Cor. viii. 13.

Reasons why good men are 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 must weep.* Now, Mr. Fearing wa's one that played upon the base; he and his fellows sound the sackbut, whose notes are more doleful than the notes of other music are; though, indeed, some say the base is the ground of music; and, for my part, I care not at all for that profession 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 there was the imperfection of Mr. Fearing, he could play upon no other music but this, till towards his latter end.

(I make bold to talk thus metaphorically, for the ripening of the wits of young readers, and because, in the book of the Revelation, 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; 't was only Sin, Death, and Hell, that were to him a terror, because he had some doubts about his interest in that Celestial Country.

A close about him.

Great-heart. You say right; those were the things that were his troubles; and they, as you have well observed, arose from the weakness of his mind thereabout, not from weakness of spirit as to the practical part of a Pilgrim's life. I dare believe, that, as the proverb is, "He could have bit a firebrand, had it stood in his way." But the things with which he was oppressed, no man ever yet could shake off with ease.

Christiana's sen

tence.

Then said Christiana, This relation of Mr. Fearing has done me good: I thought nobody had been like me; but I see there was some semblance betwixt this good Man and me; only we differed in two things. His troubles were so great that they broke 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 entertainment; but my trouble was always such as made me knock the louder.

Mercy's sentence.

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 habitation there, 'tis enough though I part with all the world to win it!

Then said Matthew, fear was one thing that made Matthew's ser me think that I was far from having that within me tence.

that accompanies salvation; but, if it was so with such a good Man as he, why may it not also go well with me? No fears, no grace, said James. Though 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.

James's sentence.

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 any thing, while here,

That would have thee betrayed.

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.

Their farewell

about him.

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

Of Mr. Self-will.

to tell them of another, but his name was Mr. Selfwill. 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 Old Honest had would always be like himself, self-willed. He talked with him. neither cared for man, nor argument, nor yet example; what his mind prompted him to, that he would do, and nothing else could he be got to do.

Great-heart. Pray what principles did he hold? for I suppose you can tell.

Hon. He held that a man might follow the vices as well as the virtues of the Pilgrims; and that, if he did both, he should be certainly saved.

Self-will's opinion.

Great-heart. How! If he had said, It is possible for the best to be guilty of the vices, as well as partake of the virtues 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 opinion that it was allowable so to be?