MacMillan's Reading Books Part 27

THE PILGRIMS AND GIANT DESPAIR.

Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle, called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, and it was in his grounds they now were sleeping; wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then with a grim and surly voice he bid them awake, and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his grounds. They told him that they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way. Then said the giant. You have this night trespa.s.sed on me by trampling in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me. So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they.

They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault.

The giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, into a very dark dungeon, nasty, and loathsome to the spirits of these two men. Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Sat.u.r.day night, without one bit of bread or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did; they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now, in this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his unadvised haste that they were brought into this distress.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence; so when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done, to wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners, and cast them into his dungeon for trespa.s.sing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best to do further to them. So she asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound, and he told her. Then she counselled him, that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without mercy. So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crabtree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done, he withdraws, and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress: so all that day they spent their time in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next night, she, talking with her husband further about them, and understanding that they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves.

So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner, as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them, that since they were never like to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison; for why, said he, should you choose to live, seeing it is attended with so much bitterness? But they desired him to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them, and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of his fits (for he sometimes, in sunshiny weather, fell into fits), and lost for a time the use of his hands; wherefore he withdrew, and left them as before to consider what to do.

Well, towards evening the giant goes down into the dungeon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel. But when he came there, he found them alive; and, truly, alive was all; for now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them, that seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been born.

At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a swoon: but coming a little to himself again, they renewed their discourse about the giant's counsel, and whether yet they had best take it or no.

Now night being come again, and the giant and his wife being in bed, she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel; to which he replied. They are st.u.r.dy rogues; they choose rather to bear all hardships than to make away with themselves. Then said she, Take them into the castle-yard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast done their fellows before them.

So when the morning was come, the giant goes to them again, and takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them as his wife had bidden him.

These, said he, were pilgrims as you are once, and they trespa.s.sed on my grounds as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces; and so within ten days I will do you. Go get you down to your den again.

And with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay therefore all day on Sat.u.r.day in lamentable case as before. Now when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband the giant were got to bed, they began to renew their discourse of the prisoners; and withal the old giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor counsel bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, said she, that they live in hopes that some will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to escape. And sayest thou so, my dear? said the giant; I will therefore search them in the morning.

Well, on Sat.u.r.day about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break of day.

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed, broke out into this pa.s.sionate speech: What a fool, quoth he, am I, to lie in a dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty! I have a key in my bosom called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any lock in Doubtful Castle. Then said Hopeful, That's good news; good brother, pluck it out of thy bosom and try.

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the dungeon-door, whose bolt, as he turned the key, gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outward door that leads into the castle-yard, and with his key opened that door also. After that he went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too, but that lock went desperately hard, yet the key did open it. Then they thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed; but that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail; for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then, they went on, and came to the king's highway again, and so were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction.

BUNYAN.

[Note: _John Bunyan_ (1628-1688), the Puritan tinker, author of the 'Pilgrim's Progress,']

THE WINTER EVENING.

Hark! 'tis the tw.a.n.ging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright!-- He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks!

News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind.

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pa.s.s on.

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.

Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill.

Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

But oh the important budget; usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd?

Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?

Is India free? and does she wear her plumed And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh--I long to know them all; I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Not such his evening, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides.

Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage; Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb.

And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

This folio of four pages, happy work!

Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read.

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break: What is it, but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?

Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, That tempts ambition. On the summit, see, The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels.

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dext'rous jerk, soon twists him And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.

Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is asham'd and grieved To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs.

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives.

Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; The dearth of information and good sense, That it foretells us, always comes to pa.s.s.

Cataracts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes.

The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets, Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits.

And Katerfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjur'd ear.

Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd To some secure and more than mortal height.

That liberates and exempts me from them all It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And avarice that make man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats By which he speaks the language of his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the bound.

He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flower to flower, so he from land to land: The manners, customs, policy, of all Pay contribution to the store he gleans; He sucks intelligence in every clinic, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return--a rich repast for me.

He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

COWPER.

[Note:_Katerfelto_. A quack then exhibiting in London.]

A HARD WINTER.

There were some circ.u.mstances attending the remarkable frost of January 1776 so singular and striking, that a short detail of them may not be unacceptable.

The most certain way to be exact will be to copy the pa.s.sages from my journal, which were taken from time to time, as things occurred. But it may be proper previously to remark, that the first week in January was uncommonly wet, and drowned with vast rain from every quarter; from whence may be inferred, as there is great reason to believe is the case, that intense frosts seldom take place till the earth is completely glutted and chilled with water; and hence dry autumns are seldom followed by rigorous winters.