When he was about seventeen, the ordinary course of his life was interrupted by an event which gave a lasting colour to his thoughts.He enlisted in the parliamentary army, and served during the decisive campaign of 1645.All that we know of his military career is that, at the siege of Leicester, one of his comrades, who had taken his post, was killed by a shot from the town.Bunyan ever after considered himself as having been saved from death by the special interference of Providence.It may be observed that his imagination was strongly impressed by the glimpse which he had caught of the pomp of war.To the last he loved to draw his illustrations of sacred things from camps and fortresses, from guns, drums, trumpets, flags of truce, and regiments arrayed, each under its own banner.His Greatheart, his Captain Boanerges, and his Captain Credence, are evidently portraits, of which the originals were among those martial saints who fought and expounded in Fairfax's army.
In a few months Bunyan returned home and married.His wife had some pious relations, and brought him as her only portion some pious books.And now his mind, excitable by nature, very imperfectly disciplined by education, and exposed, without any protection, to the infectious virulence of the enthusiasm which was then epidemic in England, began to be fearfully disordered.
In outward things he soon became a strict Pharisee.He was constant in attendance at prayers and sermons.His favourite amusements were one after another relinquished, though not without many painful struggles.In the middle of a game at tipcat he paused, and stood staring wildly upwards with his stick in his hand.He had heard a voice asking him whether he would leave his sins and go to heaven, or keep his sins and go to hell;and he had seen an awful countenance frowning on him from the sky.The odious vice of bellringing he renounced; but he still for a time ventured to go to the church tower and look on while others pulled the ropes.But soon the thought struck him that, if he persisted in such wickedness, the steeple would fall on his head; and he fled in terror from the accursed place.To give up dancing on the village green was still harder; and some months elapsed before he had the fortitude to part with this darling sin.When this last sacrifice had been made, he was, even when tried by the maxims of that austere time, faultless.All Elstow talked of him as an eminently pious youth.But his own mind was more unquiet than ever.Having nothing more to do in the way of visible reformation, yet finding in religion no pleasures to supply the place of the juvenile amusements which he had relinquished, he began to apprehend that he lay under some special malediction; and he was tormented by a succession of fantasies which seemed likely to drive him to suicide or to Bedlam.
At one time he took it into his head that all persons of Israelite blood would be saved, and tried to make out that he partook of that blood; but his hopes were speedily destroyed by his father, who seems to have had no ambition to be regarded as a Jew.
At another time Bunyan was disturbed by a strange dilemma: "If Ihave not faith, I am lost; if I have faith, I can work miracles."He was tempted to cry to the puddles between Elstow and Bedford, "Be ye dry," and to stake his eternal hopes on the event.
Then he took up a notion that the day of grace for Bedford and the neighbouring villages was past: that all who were to be saved in that part of England were already converted; and that he had begun to pray and strive some months too late.
Then he was harassed by doubts whether the Turks were not in the right, and the Christians in the wrong.Then he was troubled by a maniacal impulse which prompted him to pray to the trees, to a broom-stick, to the parish bull.As yet, however, he was only entering the Valley of the Shadow of Death.Soon the darkness grew thicker.Hideous forms floated before him.Sounds of cursing and wailing were in his ears.His way ran through stench and fire, close to the mouth of the bottomless pit.He began to be haunted by a strange curiosity about the unpardonable sin, and by a morbid longing to commit it.But the most frightful of all the forms which his disease took was a propensity to utter blasphemy, and especially to renounce his share in the benefits of the redemption.Night and day, in bed, at table, at work, evil spirits, as he imagined, were repeating close to his ear the words, "Sell him, sell him." He struck at the hobgoblins; he pushed them from him; but still they were ever at his side.He cried out in answer to them, hour after hour: "Never, never; not for thousands of worlds, not for thousands." At length, worn out by this long agony, he suffered the fatal words to escape him, "Let him go, if he will." Then his misery became more fearful than ever.He had done what could not be forgiven.He had forfeited his part of the great sacrifice.Like Esau, he had sold his birthright; and there was no longer any place for repentance."None," he afterwards wrote, "knows the terrors of those days but myself." He has described his sufferings with singular energy, simplicity, and pathos.He envied the brutes;he envied the very stones in the street, and the tiles on the houses.The sun seemed to withhold its light and warmth from him.His body, though cast in a sturdy mould, and though still in the highest vigour of youth, trembled whole days together with the fear of death and judgment.He fancied that this trembling was the sign set on the worst reprobates, the sign which God had put on Cain.The unhappy man's emotion destroyed his power of digestion.He had such pains that he expected to burst asunder like Judas, whom he regarded as his prototype.
