fly stir again, down comes the spider, and claps a foot upon her. If the fly struggle still, he poisons her more and more. What shall the fly do now? Why, she dies, if somebody do not quickly release her. This is the case with the tempted. Their feet and wings are entangled. Now, Satan shows him. self. If the soul struggleth, Satan laboureth to hold it down. If it maketh a noise, then he bites it with a blasphemous mouth, more poisonous than the gall of a serpent. If it struggle again, he then poisons it more and more; insomuch, that it must needs die, if the Lord Jesus help not. But though the fly is altogether incapable of looking for relief, this tempted Christian is not. What must he do therefore? If he look to his heart, there is blasphemy. If he look to his duties, there is sin. Shall this man lie down in despair? No. Shall he trust in his duties? No. Shall he stay away from Christ until his heart is better? No. What then? Let him look to Christ crucified! Then shall he see his sins answered for, and death dying. This sight destroys the power of the first temptation, and both purifies the mind, and inclines the heart to all good things."-Works, vol. iv. p. 2340. Thus, if Bunyan built the Interpreter's House by spiritualizing the temple, he interpreted the sights in that house by making the most and the best of what he saw in his own cell.

Bunyan was so pleased with this parallel between Satan and a spider, that away went pincers and laces, until he rhymed the fact. He makes the spider say,

"Thus in my ways, God, wisdom doth conceal,
And by my ways, that wisdom I reveal.

I hide myself, when I for flies do wait;
So doth the devil, when he lays his bait.
If I do fear the losing of my prey,

I stir me, and more snares upon her lay.
This way, and that, her wings and legs I tie,
That sure as she is catched, so she must die.
And if I see she's like to get away,

Then, with my venom, I her journey stay."
Works, vol. ii. p. 964.

He

Bunyan studied and talked with this spider so much at the window, that it became a favourite with him at last. abuses it in "good set terms," through half a long poem ; but it taught him so much sound wisdom, that he withdrew his sarcasms, and sang,

"Well, my good spider, I my errors see
I was a fool in railing thus at thee,

Thy nature, venom, and thy fearful hue,
But show what sinners are, and what they do.
Well, well, I will no more be a derider,

I did not look for such things from a spider.
O Spider, I have heard thee, and do wonder,
A spider thus should lighten, and thus thunder.
O Spider, thou delight'st me with thy skill,
I pray thee spit this venom at me still!"

It was not without reason he thus ended with high compliments to his web-weaving neighbour: for he studied her habits and instincts, until he found her to be the best philosopher he had ever met with. He has not, in fact, written any thing more ingenious or profound, in one sense, than his poem of "The Sinner and the Spider."

It is delightful to find, that neither the dust nor the bars of his prison window could prevent Bunyan from enjoying sunrise. He had often sat under its first rosy light, reading Luther and the Bible, whilst a wandering tinker; and when a prisoner, he could welcome the sun thus:

"Look yonder! O, methinks, mine eyes do see
Clouds edged with silver, as fine garments be!
They look as if they saw thy golden face,

That makes black clouds most beautiful with grace.
Unto the Saints' sweet incense of their prayer,
These smoky curling clouds, I do compare;
For as these clouds seem edged or laced with gold,
Their prayers return, with blessings manifold."
Works, vol. ii. p. 963.

All weathers were not alike to the prisoner. He felt the weight of a close or damp atmosphere. It made him so nervous in his cell, that he was often ready, he says, " to start and tremble at his own shadow" on the walls and the floor. He could, however, turn all weathers to account. On one "low. ering morning," he laid aside his pincers, and wrote thus:

"Well, with the day, I see the clouds appear,
And mix the light with darkness everywhere.
This threatens those who on long journeys go,
That they shall meet with slobby rain or snow.
Else, while I gaze, the sun doth with his beams
Belace the clouds, as 't were with bloody streams.
Then, suddenly, these clouds do watery grow,
And weep, and pour their tears out, as they go.
Thus 't is when gospel-light doth usher in

To us,

both sense of grace, and sense of sin;

And when it makes sin red with Jesu's blood,
Then we can weep till weeping does us good!"
Works, vol. ii. p. 959.

Except Bunyan attempted to write poetry before he was a prisoner, of which I have found no proof-he seems to have seen from his window, in the bed of the river, a bright stone, which interested him, and at length instructed him. The following lines prove at least, that he could "find sermons in stones, and books in running brooks, and good in every thing."

"This flint, time out of mind, hath there abode,

Where crystal streams make their continual road;
Yet it abides a flint as much as 't were
Before it touched the water, or came there.
Its hardness is not in the least abated,
'T is not at all by water penetrated.
Though water hath a softening virtue in 't,
It can't dissolve the stone; for 't is a flint.
Yea, though in the water it doth still remain,
Its fiery nature it doth still retain.

If you oppose it with its opposite,

Then in your very face its fire will spit.
This flint an emblem is of those that lie

Under the Word, like stones, until they die :

Its crystal streams do not their nature change,
They are not from their lusts by grace estranged."
Works, vol. ii. p. 958.

I have mentioned Bunyan's Sand-Glass. He could not be so playful with it as with his rose, or with his spider. It had measured too many sad and slow hours to suggest any but solemn thoughts. Its sands were never golden, nor too swift, but when his great works were in hand; and then, he had no time to count them. But when he did count them, it was done

like himself.

"This glass, when made, was, by the workman's skill,
The sum of sixty minutes to fulfil.

Time, more or less, by it will not be spun ;
But just an hour, and then its sands are run.
Man's life we will compare unto this glass:
The number of his months he cannot pass."

Works, vol. ii, p. 976.

Bunyan must have been not a little pleased, at times, with his own poetry, although it cost much labour. And, no wonder; for it is sometimes very happy. No one has ever

sung "The Fly and the Candle" better than he did.

True,

he could ill afford to have his small candles set a running by flies. They wasted too soon of themselves, and were always too few for his purpose. He scolds the Fly, however, in the gentlest terms he well could.

"What ails this fly, thus desperately to enter
A combat with the candle ? Will she venture
To clash at light? Away, thou silly fly!
Thus doing, thou wilt burn thy wings and die.'
But 't is a folly-her advice to give:

She'll kill the candle; or, she will not live.

'Slap!' says she, at it!' Then she makes retreat.
So wheels about, and doth her blows repeat.
Nor doth the candle let her quite escape,
But gives some little check unto the ape;
Throws up her nimble heels, till down she falls
Where she lies sprawling, and for succour calls.
When she recovers, up she gets again,
And at the candle comes, with might and main !
But now, behold, the candle takes the fly,
And holds her till she doth, by burning, die!"

Works, vol. ii. p. 976.

But it is time to draw this long chapter to a close, although it certainly has not been made long for the sake of length; but that we may see how Bunyan diversified his literary pursuits; and thus realize his very position and spirit whilst he was thinking for the world, and writing for all time. In fact, nothing but such quotation as I have indulged in, could explain the plodding habits of such a mind as Bunyan's. He could not have worked out his theological system, through the medium of a Concordance, without the reliefs he found in rhyming and spiritualizing. These were both air and exercise to his mind, after being long bent at hard study. It was by giving play to his fancy, and by indulging the whims of his taste, when tired of pondering, that he kept his understanding so clear, and his judgment so cool. In a word, it was by having "so many irons in the fire at once," and by humouring the inclination of the moment in the selection of one, that he wrought them all so well.

I have included his Book of Martyrs amongst his few comforts in prison, although he himself does not name it along with his Bible and Concordance. There are, however, references to it in some of his Works written in prison, which indicate its presence there. There is also a quotation from it in his

"House of the Forest of Lebanon," too long and accurate to One of his own signatures also in it, It must, therefore, have been in prison

be made from memory. bears date in 1662.

with him.

I cannot close this chapter, without bringing up again the interesting fact, that Bunyan retained and cherished all his most shut out from the sight of To his sanctified imagination,

love of NATURE, even when the heavens and the earth.

Nature had been a Bethel Ladder, whilst he was a prisoner at large and when he was in

"Durance vile,"

and could see only a step or two of that Ladder through his bars, his spirit sprung out upon it at once. I must illustrate this fact. He exclaims, at sun-rise,

"Look, look! brave Sol doth peep up from beneath;—
Shows us his golden face ;-doth on us breathe:

Yea, he doth compass us around with glories,

Whilst he ascends up to his highest stories,

Where he his banner over us displays,

And gives us light!".

Works, vol. ii. p. 968.

He was so fond of sun-light, as well as scarce of candles to write by, that he remonstrated with the sun one night thus,

?

"What, hast thou run thy race? Art going down?
Why as one angry, dost thou fade and frown?
Why wrap thy head with clouds, and hide thy face,
As threatening to withdraw from us thy grace
O, leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head,
Our whole horizon will be overspread!
Tell, who hath thee offended? Turn again!
Alas, too late! Entreaties are in vain."

Works, vol. ii. p. 971.

His prison window seems to have commanded the view of an Orchard. This delighted him, although it must have reminded him of his thievish pranks whilst he was a sin-breeder in Elstow and Bedford.

"A comely sight, indeed, it is to see

A world of blossoms on an apple-tree.
Yet far more comely would this tree appear,
If all its dainty blossoms, apples were.