The Pilgrim's Progress

by John Bunyan

  ‘I did as I was bidden, and picked up a white-backed book, and opening it at random, read: “There be many who spend their days in evil and wine-bibbing, in lusting and cheating, who think to mend while yet there is time; but the opportunity is to them for ever awanting, and they go down open-mouthed to the great fire.”

  ‘“Psa,” I cried, “some wretched preaching book, I will have none of them. Good wine will be better than bad theology.” So I sat down once more at the table.

  ‘“You’re a clever man, Mr Duncan,” he says, “and a well-read one. I commend your spirit in breaking away from the bands of the Kirk and the college, though your father was so thrawn against you.”

  ‘“Enough of that,” I said, “though I don’t know who telled you”; I was angry to hear my father spoken of, as though the grieving him was a thing to be proud of.

  ‘“Oh, as you please,” he says; “I was just going to say that I commended your spirit in sticking the knife into the man in the Pleasaunce, the time you had to hide for a month about the backs o’ Leith.”

  ‘“How do you ken that?” I asked hotly, “you’ve heard more about me than ought to be repeated, let me tell you.”

  ‘“Don’t be angry,” he said sweetly; “I like you well for these things, and you mind the lassie in Athole that was so fond of you. You treated her well, did you not?”

  ‘I made no answer, being too much surprised at his knowledge of things which I thought none knew but myself.

  ‘“Oh yes, Mr Duncan. I could tell you what you were doing today, how you cheated Jock Gallowa out of six pounds, and sold a horse to the farmer of Haypath that was scarce fit to carry him home. And I know what you are meaning to do the morn at Glesca, and I wish you well of it.”

  ‘“I think you must be the Devil,” I said blankly.

  ‘“The same, at your service,” said he, still smiling.

  ‘I looked at him in terror, and even as I looked I kenned by something in his eyes and the twitch of his lips that he was speaking the truth.

  ‘“And what place is this, you…” I stammered.

  ‘“Call me Mr S.,” he says gently, “and enjoy your stay while you are here and don’t concern yourself about the lawing.”

  ‘“The lawing!” I cried in astonishment, “and is this a house of public entertainment?”

  ‘“To be sure, else how is a poor man to live?”

  ‘“Name it,” said I, “and I will pay and be gone.”

  ‘“Well,” said he, “I make it a habit to give a man his choice. In your case it will be your wealth or your chances hereafter, in plain English your flock or your—”

  ‘“My immortal soul,” I gasped.

  ‘“Your soul,” said Mr S., bowing, “though I think you call it by too flattering an adjective.”

  ‘“You damned thief,” I roared, “you would entice a man into your accursed house and then strip him bare.”

  ‘“Hold hard,” said he, “don’t let us spoil our good fellowship by incivilities. And, mind you, I took you to witness to begin with that you sat down of your own accord.”

  ‘“So you did,” said I, and could say no more.

  ‘“Come, come,” he says, “don’t take it so bad. You may keep all your gear and yet part from here in safety. You’ve but to sign your name, which is no hard task to a college-bred man, and go on living as you live just now to the end. And let me tell you, Mr Duncan Stewart, that you should take it as a great obligement that I am willing to take your bit soul instead of fifty sheep. There’s no many would value it so high.”

  ‘“Maybe no, maybe no,” I said sadly, “but it’s all I have. D’ye no see that if I gave it up, there would be no chance left of mending? And I’m sure I do not want your company to all eternity.”

  ‘“Faith, that’s uncivil,” he says; “I was just about to say that we had had a very pleasant evening.”

  ‘I sat back in my chair very down-hearted. I must leave this place as poor as a kirk-mouse, and begin again with little but the clothes on my back. I was strongly tempted to sign the bit paper thing and have done with it all, but somehow I could not bring myself to do it. So at last I says to him: “Well, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll give you my sheep, sorry though I be to lose them, and I hope I may never come near this place again as long as I live.”

  ‘“On the contrary,” he said, “I hope often to have the pleasure of your company. And seeing that you’ve paid well for your lodging, I hope you’ll make the best of it. Don’t be sparing on the drink.”

  ‘I looked hard at him for a second. “You’ve an ill name, and an ill trade, but you’ no a bad sort yoursel, and, do you ken, I like you.”

  ‘“I’m much obliged to you for the character,” says he, “and I’ll take your hand on’t.”

  ‘So I filled up my glass and we set to, and such an evening I never mind of. We never got fou, but just in a fine good temper and very entertaining. The stories we telled and the jokes we cracked are still a kind of memory with me, though I could not come over one of them. And then, when I got sleepy, I was shown to the brawest bedroom, all hung with pictures and looking-glasses, and with bed-clothes of the finest linen and a coverlet of silk. I bade Mr S. goodnight, and my head was scarce on the pillow ere I was sound asleep.

  ‘When I awoke the sun was just newly risen, and the frost of a September morning was on my clothes. I was lying among green braes with nothing near me but crying whaups and heathery hills, and my two dogs running round about and howling as they were mad.’

  Politics and the May-Fly

  The farmer of Clachlands was a Tory, stern and unbending. It was the tradition of his family, from his grandfather, who had been land-steward to Lord Manorwater, down to his father, who had once seconded a vote of confidence in the sitting member. Such traditions, he felt, were not to be lightly despised; things might change, empires might wax and wane, but his obligation continued; a sort of perverted noblesse oblige was the farmer’s watchword in life; and by dint of much energy and bad language, he lived up to it.

  As fate would have it, the Clachlands ploughman was a Radical of Radicals. He had imbibed his opinions early in life from a speaker on the green of Gledsmuir, and ever since, by the help of a weekly penny paper and an odd volume of Gladstone’s speeches, had continued his education. Such opinions in a conservative countryside carry with them a reputation for either abnormal cleverness or abnormal folly. The fact that he was a keen fisher, a famed singer of songs, and the best judge of horses in the place, caused the verdict of his neighbours to incline to the former, and he passed for something of an oracle among his fellows. The blacksmith, who was the critic of the neighbourhood, summed up his character in a few words. ‘Him,’ said he, in a tone of mingled dislike and admiration, ‘him! He would sweer white was black the morn, and dod! he would prove it tae.’

  It so happened in the early summer, when the land was green and the trout plashed in the river, that Her Majesty’s Government saw fit to appeal to an intelligent country. Among a people whose politics fight hard with their religion for a monopoly of their interests, feeling ran high and brotherly kindness departed. Houses were divided against themselves. Men formerly of no consideration found themselves suddenly important, and discovered that their intellects and conscience, which they had hitherto valued at little, were things of serious interest to their betters. The lurid light of publicity was shed upon the lives of the rival candidates; men formerly accounted worthy and respectable were proved no better than white sepulchres; and each man was filled with a morbid concern for his fellow’s character and beliefs.

  The farmer of Clachlands called a meeting of his labourers in the great dusty barn, which had been the scene of many similar gatherings. His speech on the occasion was rigorous and to the point. ‘Ye are a’ my men,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll see that ye vote richt. Y’re uneddicated folk, and ken naething aboot the matter, sae ye just tak’ my word for’t, that the Tories are in the richt and vote accordingly. I’ve been a g
uid maister to ye, and it’s shurely better to pleesure me, than a wheen leein’ scoondrels whae tramp the country with leather bags and printit trash.’

  Then arose from the back the ploughman, strong in his convictions. ‘Listen to me, you men,’ says he; ‘just vote as ye think best. The maister’s a guid maister, as he says, but he’s nocht to dae wi’ your votin’. It’s what they ca’ inteemedation to interfere wi’ onybody in this matter. So mind that, an’ vote for the workin’-man an’ his richts.’

  Then ensued a war of violent words.

  ‘Is this a meetin’ in my barn, or a pennywaddin?’

  ‘Ca’t what ye please. I canna let ye mislead the men.’

  ‘Whae talks about misleadin’? Is’t misleadin’ to lead them richt?’

  ‘The question,’ said the ploughman solemnly, ‘is what you ca’ richt.’

  ‘William Laverhope, if ye werena a guid plooman, ye wad gang post-haste oot o’ here the morn.’

  ‘I carena what ye say. I’ll stand up for the richts o’ thae men.’

  ‘Men!’ – this with deep scorn. ‘I could mak’ better men than thae wi’ a stick oot o’ the plantin’.’

  ‘Ay, ye say that noo, an’ the morn ye’ll be ca’in’ ilka yin o’ them Mister, a’ for their votes.’

  The farmer left in dignified disgust, vanquished but still dangerous; the ploughman in triumph mingled with despair. For he knew that his fellow-labourers cared not a whit for politics, but would follow to the letter their master’s bidding.

  The next morning rose clear and fine. There had been a great rain for the past few days, and the burns were coming down broad and surly. The Clachlands Water was chafing by bank and bridge and threatening to enter the hay-field, and every little ditch and sheep-drain was carrying its tribute of peaty water to the greater flood. The farmer of Clachlands, as he looked over the landscape from the doorstep of his dwelling, marked the state of the weather and pondered over it.

  He was not in a pleasant frame of mind that morning. He had been crossed by a ploughman, his servant. He liked the man, and so the obvious way of dealing with him – by making things uncomfortable or turning him off – was shut against him. But he burned to get the upper hand of him, and discomfit once for all one who had dared to question his wisdom and good sense. If only he could get him to vote on the other side – but that was out of the question. If only he could keep him from voting – that was possible but unlikely. He might forcibly detain him, in which case he would lay himself open to the penalties of the law, and be nothing the gainer. For the victory which he desired was a moral one, not a triumph of force. He would like to circumvent him by cleverness, to score against him fairly and honourably on his own ground. But the thing was hard, and, as it seemed to him at the moment, impossible.

  Suddenly, as he looked over the morning landscape, a thought struck him and made him slap his legs and chuckle hugely. He walked quickly up and down the gravelled walk. ‘Losh, it’s guid. I’ll dae’t. I’ll dae’t, if the weather juist hauds.’

  His unseemly mirth was checked by the approach of someone who found the farmer engaged in the minute examination of gooseberry leaves. ‘I’m concerned aboot thae busses,’ he was saying; ‘they’ve been ill look it to, an’ we’ll no hae half a crop.’ And he went off, still smiling, and spent a restless forenoon in the Gledsmuir market.

  In the evening he met the ploughman, as he returned from the turnip-singling, with his hoe on his shoulder. The two men looked at one another with the air of those who know that all is not well between them. Then the farmer spoke with much humility.

  ‘I maybe spoke rayther severe yestreen,’ he said. ‘I hope I didna hurt your feelings.’

  ‘Na, na! No me!’ said the ploughman airily.

  ‘Because I’ve been thinking ower the matter, an’ I admit that a man has a richt to his ain thochts. A’body should hae principles an’ stick to them,’ said the farmer, with the manner of one making a recondite quotation.

  ‘Ay,’ he went on, ‘I respect ye, William, for your consistency. Ye’re an example to us a’.’

  The other shuffled and looked unhappy. He and his master were on the best of terms, but these unnecessary compliments were not usual in their intercourse. He began to suspect, and the farmer, who saw his mistake, hastened to change the subject.

  ‘Graund weather for the fishin’,’ said he.

  ‘Oh, is it no?’ said the other, roused to excited interest by this home topic. ‘I tell ye by the morn they’ll be takin’ as they’ve never ta’en this ’ear. Doon in the big pool in the Clachlands Water, at the turn o’ the turnip-field, there are twae or three pounders, and aiblins yin o’ twae pund. I saw them mysel’ when the water was low. It’s ower big the noo, but when it gangs doon the morn, and gets the colour o’ porter, I’se warrant I could whup them oot o’ there wi’ the flee.’

  ‘D’ ye say sae?’ said the farmer, sweetly. ‘Weel, it’s a lang time since I tried the fishin’, but I yince was keen on’t. Come in bye, William; I’ve something ye micht like to see.’

  From a corner he produced a rod, and handed it to the other. It was a very fine rod indeed, one which the owner had gained in a fishing competition many years before, and treasured accordingly. The ploughman examined it long and critically. Then he gave his verdict. ‘It’s the brawest rod I ever saw, wi’ a fine hickory butt, an’ guid greenhert tap and middle. It wad cast the sma’est flee, and haud the biggest troot.’

  ‘Weel,’ said the farmer, genially smiling, ‘Ye have a half-holiday the morn when ye gang to the poll. There’ll be plenty o’ time in the evening to try a cast wi’t. I’ll lend it ye for the day.’

  The man’s face brightened. ‘I wad tak’ it verra kindly,’ he said, ‘if ye wad. My ain yin is no muckle worth, and, as ye say, I’ll hae time for a cast the morn’s nicht.’

  ‘Dinna mention it. Did I ever let ye see my flee-book? Here it is,’ and he produced a thick flannel book from a drawer. ‘There’s a maist miscellaneous collection, for a’ waters an’ a’ weathers. I got a heap o’ them frae auld Lord Manorwater, when I was a laddie, and used to cairry his basket.’

  But the ploughman heeded him not, being deep in the examination of its mysteries. Very gingerly he handled the tiny spiders and hackles, surveying them with the eye of a connoisseur.

  ‘If there’s anything there ye think at a’ like the water, I’ll be verra pleased if ye’ll try’t.’

  The other was somewhat put out by this extreme friendliness. At another time he would have refused shamefacedly, but now the love of sport was too strong in him. ‘Ye’re far ower guid,’ he said; ‘thae twae paitrick wings are the verra things I want, an’ I dinna think I’ve ony at hame. I’m awfu’ gratefu’ to ye, an’ I’ll bring them back the morn’s nicht.’

  ‘Guid-e’en,’ said the farmer, as he opened the door, ‘an’ I wish ye may hae a guid catch.’ And he turned in again, smiling sardonically.

  The next morning was like the last, save that a little wind had risen, which blew freshly from the west. White cloudlets drifted across the blue, and the air was as clear as spring-water. Down in the hollow the roaring torrent had sunk to a full, lipping stream, and the colour had changed from a turbid yellow to a clear, delicate brown. In the town of Gledsmuir, it was a day of wild excitement, and the quiet Clachlands road bustled with horses and men. The labourers in the field scarce stopped to look at the passers, for in the afternoon they too would have their chance, when they might journey to the town in all importance, and record their opinions of the late Government.

  The ploughman of Clachlands spent a troubled forenoon. His nightly dreams had been of landing great fish, and now his waking thoughts were of the same. Politics for the time were forgotten. This was the day which he had looked forward to for so long, when he was to have been busied in deciding doubtful voters, and breathing activity into the ranks of his cause. And lo! the day had come and found his thoughts elsewhere. For all such things are, at the best, of fleeting intere
st, and do not stir men otherwise than sentimentally; but the old kindly love of field-sports, the joy in the smell of the earth and the living air, lie very close to a man’s heart. So this apostate, as he cleaned his turnip rows, was filled with the excitement of the sport, and had no thoughts above the memory of past exploits and the anticipation of greater to come.

  Midday came, and with it his release. He roughly calculated that he could go to the town, vote, and be back in two hours, and so have the evening clear for his fishing. There had never been such a day for the trout in his memory, so cool and breezy and soft, nor had he ever seen so glorious a water. ‘If ye dinna get a fou basket the nicht, an’ a feed the morn, William Laverhope, your richt hand has forgot its cunning,’ said he to himself.

  He took the rod carefully out, put it together, and made trial casts on the green. He tied the flies on a cast and put it ready for use in his own primitive fly-book, and then bestowed the whole in the breast-pocket of his coat. He had arrayed himself in his best, with a white rose in his button-hole, for it behoved a man to be well dressed on such an occasion as voting. But yet he did not start. Some fascination in the rod made him linger and try it again and again.

  Then he resolutely laid it down and made to go. But something caught his eye – the swirl of the stream as it left the great pool at the hay-field, or the glimpse of still, gleaming water. The impulse was too strong to be resisted. There was time enough and to spare. The pool was on his way to the town, he would try one cast ere he started, just to see if the water was good. So, with rod on his shoulder, he set off.

  Somewhere in the background a man, who had been watching his movements, turned away, laughing silently, and filling his pipe.

  A great trout rose to the fly in the hay-field pool, and ran the line up-stream till he broke it. The ploughman swore deeply, and stamped on the ground with irritation. His blood was up, and he prepared for battle. Carefully, skilfully he fished, with every nerve on tension and ever-watchful eyes. Meanwhile, miles off in the town the bustle went on, but the eager fisherman by the river heeded it not.