The Parable of the Pilgrim, Parable · Chapter 1
CAP. I.
The occaſion and intention of this Pilgrimage, with the time when it was undertaken.
IT will contribute ſo little either to the profit or delight which I deſign you in the reading this Hiſtory, to know the punctual years and daies wherein every thing therein contained was done; that it will be a commendable thrift, to ſpare my ſelf the labour of that accuracy. It will be ſufficient to let you underſtand, that no great number of years have paſſed, ſince a man who now calls himſelf PHILOTHEUS, but by others is called THEOPHILUS, being weary of the Country where he dwelt, and finding no ſatisfaction in any thing that he enjoyed, took a reſolution to ſhift his ſeat, and to ſeek for that, of which he felt as great a deſire as he did a want, in ſome other Land.
Many ſtrange Countries there were which he viſited in purſuance of this purpoſe; many ſteep hills he climbed, and many dangerous praecipices he narrowly eſcaped; he committed himſelf not once or twice to the anger of the Sea, expecting to be brought to the Port which he ſo much wiſhed: But ſtill he was as far from the accompliſhment of his deſires, as when he firſt launched out, and found all his pains rewarded with nothing but wearineſs and tired ſpirits. If it was the intention of this Paper to recount all his adventures, and the ſeveral iſſues of them (which are enough to fill a volume) the ſtory, I believe, would not be altogether uſeleſs, nor without that pleaſure which ſuch relations are wont to yield to thoſe that read them. But having reſolved for divers cauſes to begin the Hiſtory of his life there, where he began to enjoy a taſte of happineſs; I ſhall reflect no further upon the former part of it, than only to tell you in what caſe that bleſſed hour found him. You muſt know then, that after many tedious journeys, and as many diſappointments, his leggs beginning quite to fail him, and to deny him ſo much as their ſupport; he ſate down upon the ground in a deep melancholy, and ſuch a great heavineſs of mind, that it was feared he would ſink lower, and go no further to ſeek a grave. His countenance was ſo altered, that there were very few marks remaining of the ſame man he was before: His looks were dejected, his eyes grew hollow, his complexion turned ſallow; and in ſhort, his blood was ſo impoveriſhed of ſpirits, that his fleſh fell to the very bone, and his cheeks, in a deſpair of any other comfort, ſeemed to deſire to meet and kiſs, and ſo bid the world farewel. In this diſmal eſtate he continued but too many daies; and according to the nature of that thoughtful humour, which now had gained the ſupreme power over him, he muſed on divers things, and contrived ſeveral new journeys in his fancy, which yet he ſaw at the ſame moment, would only contribute more to his affliction, and nothing at all to the amendment of his condition. But at laſt, as if he had been admoniſhed by ſome courteous Angel which he fancied then flew by him, and gave him a ſmall touch with his wing, he felt a thought ſtir in his ſoul, remembring him of a place called Jeruſalem, which he had totally forgot in all his travels, and never ſo much as dreamed of directing his courſe unto. His heart, you may eaſily think, leapt at this ſudden ſtroke, and his pulſe beat at no ordinary rate; for having heard by ſome means or other in times paſt, very much diſcourſe of the beauty, and the pleaſant ſituation of that City; of the ſweet temper of the Inhabitants, and the many goodly things that were to be ſeen and enjoyed there above all other places; he was inſtantly poſſeſſed with a ſtrong deſire to remove his ſeat thither, and to ſeek his fortune (as we commonly ſpeak) in another world. And pondering ſeriouſly with himſelf the little or no contentment which he had taken in his beſt condition here, together with the hopes which fluttered in his ſoul of bettering himſelf there; his preſent weakneſs could not hinder him from being inſpired with a conceit that he ſhould be able to travel thither, nor repreſs his deſires from growing into a kind of paſſion to be at that place, whither his thoughts did run before him without his leave, and could not be perſwaded to ſtand ſtill for one moment. Such is the nature of any excellent good, when it preſents it ſelf to us, and fanns our ſouls with any hopes of obtaining it, that our deſires think to waft us as faſt as they can unto it; and growing continually in ſtrength and ſwiftneſs by their own motion, the gale proves ſo ſtiff; that our hearts are ſwelled therewith, and leave no room for any other thoughts, nor can be at any reſt, till they be poſſeſſed of it. Thus would this poor man have taught thoſe who now beheld him, though they had never read a word in their own ſouls; for his mind was ſo impreſſed with the happineſs which he heard dwelt at Jeruſalem, that he was not able to diſcharge his ſoul at any time of thoſe thoughts and deſires which lifted him up from the ground, and told him they would carry him thither. When he did eat or drink, Jeruſalem would ſtill be in his mouth; when he was in company, Jeruſalem ſtole away his heart from them; nay in his very ſleep it would not ſtay away, but he was wont to dream fine things of Jeruſalem. But that which makes the ſtory of this perſon the more remarkable is, that it was toward the latter end of the year, and in the decay of all things, when theſe good thoughts began to ſpring up in his ſoul. When the earth had removed it ſelf a great way from the Sun, when all the gallantry of the fields had reſigned its place to Ice and Snow, when charity grew cold, and Chriſtian virtue ſeemed to be gone back to its root, when the waies were untrod, and few or no Travellers upon the road; then did theſe zealous deſires begin to bud in the heart of this honeſt Countryman, and he felt ſuch a vehement heat urging and ſtimulating his breaſt, that he could remain in no quiet for thinking of his journey to that fair place, which had been ſo much commended to his love, as the moſt flouriſhing and glorious that ever eye beheld.