The only work of fiction, in all probability, with which he could
compare his pilgrim, was his old favorite, the legend of Sir Bevis of
Southampton. He would have thought it a sin to borrow any time from the
serious business of his life, from his expositions, his controversies,
and his lace tags, for the purpose of amusing himself with what he
considered merely as a trifle. It was only, he assures us, at spare
moments that he returned to the House Beautiful, the Delectable
Mountains, and the Enchanted Ground. He had no assistance. Nobody but
himself saw a line till the whole was complete. He then consulted his
pious friends. Some were pleased. Others were much scandalized. It was a
vain story, a mere romance about giants, and lions, and goblins, and
warriors, sometimes fighting with monsters, and sometimes regaled by
fair ladies in stately palaces. The loose, atheistical wits at Will's
might write such stuff to divert the painted Jezebels of the court; but
did it become a minister of the Gospel to copy the evil fashions of the
world? There had been a time when the cant of such fools would have made
Bunyan miserable. But that time was passed, and his mind was now in a
firm and healthy state. He saw that in employing fiction to make truth
clear and goodness attractive, he was only following the example which
every Christian ought to propose to himself; and he determined to print.
The "Pilgrim's Progress" stole silently into the world.
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