“And they imprisoned him for twelve years? How cruel! What a tedious, weary trial it must have been to him!”
“God honoured the prisoner far above the prince; He made the jail a nobler dwelling than a palace! It was there that the despised and persecuted tinker composed his wonderful book. Bright, holy thoughts were his pleasant companions. While his worldly judges were passing through life, surrounded by cares, business, and amusements, seeing, perhaps, nothing beyond this fleeting scene, the prisoner was tracing the Pilgrim’s Progress, copying from his own heart the Pilgrim’s feelings, noting from his own life the Pilgrim’s trials, and describing from his own hopes the Pilgrim’s reward. And when his book was finished—when, with humble faith, he laid it as an offering before Him who had given him the power to write it—how little could the despised Bunyan have anticipated the honour which God would put upon that book! It has been read by thousands and hundreds of thousands—generation after generation have delighted in it—the high and the low, the rich and the poor, all have welcomed the chart of the Pilgrim. It has been translated into many foreign tongues; from east to west, from north to south, in all the four quarters of the globe, it has directed sinners to the one strait gate, and guided them along the one narrow path. I believe,” added Mr. Ewart, laying his hand upon the volume, “that next to the Bible, from which it is taken, that this book has been the most widely circulated of any ever written; and never shall we know, till the last great day, how many a saved and rejoicing spirit may trace its first step in the heavenward way to reading Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.”
CHAPTER XIII.
DISTANT GLIMPSE OF VANITY FAIR.
“Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Ah! what a strange remembrance I shall always have of that old ruin!” exclaimed Charles, as again he drove past the well-known spot, in a carriage with post-horses, on his way to Castle Fontonore. But this time he had another companion beside him; Ernest, well wrapped up in cloak and furs—for the autumn was now advanced—was resting on the soft cushions of the luxurious vehicle.
“What will your remembrances be, compared to mine?” said Ernest, raising himself to look out, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the gray pile until it was lost to his sight.
“I went to pick up a stone as a keepsake, and I found a brother!” cried Charles.