PREFACE

In the year 1682 there was published by Dorman Newman, ‘at the King’s Arms in the Poultry,’ and Benjamin Alsop, ‘at the Angel and Bible in the Poultry,’ a volume entitled ‘The Holy War, made by Shaddai upon Diabolus for the regaining of the Metropolis of the World; or the Losing and Taking again of the Town of Mansoul.’  It was the work of John Bunyan, who, sixteen years before, had published the story of his own spiritual struggle under the title of ‘Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners’;and, but four years before, had produced ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ (Part I).  Bunyan had speedily followed the issue of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ with the ‘Life and Death of Mr. Badman,’picture of English life and character as he had seen it, grimly faithful to fact.  In ‘The Holy War’ Bunyan returned to allegory.  As a piece of literature the book is in no way inferior to the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’  If Bunyan had written nothing else, ‘The Holy War’ would have sufficed to establish his claim to a place amongst the masters of English prose.  As an appeal to the conscience it is not a whit less effective than the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’; but in the power of seizing and retaining the reader’s attention it is scarcely so successful.  Nevertheless Macaulay held that ‘if there had been no “Pilgrim’s Progress” “The Holy War” would have been the first of religious allegories.’

In working out the details of ‘The Holy War’ Bunyan seems to have kept in mind his own experience.  The fortifications of the city, the movements of the opposing forces, the changes in the municipal offices of Mansoul were reproductions of scenes and events that had but recently gone on under Bunyan’s eyes.  He adapted them with extraordinary success to the presentation both of the doctrines of grace and of the temptations which attend the Christian life.  The characters and the incidents are, in effect, the characters and incidents of every age.  It is this which gives to the story of Mansoul its undying freshness, and suits it to the needs of men in all climes.  ‘The Holy War’ has been translated into many languages, including some of those with the scantiest of literature.  Indeed, as this edition is being prepared for the press, assistance is being rendered by the Religious Tract Society in the printing of ‘The Holy War’ in Kongo.

A. R. BUCKLAND.

TO THE READER

 
   ’Tis strange to me, that they that love to tell
Things done of old, yea, and that do excel
Their equals in historiology,
Speak not of Mansoul’s wars, but let them lie
Dead, like old fables, or such worthless things,
That to the reader no advantage brings:
When men, let them make what they will their own,
Till they know this, are to themselves unknown.
   Of stories, I well know, there’s divers sorts,
Some foreign, some domestic; and reports
Are thereof made as fancy leads the writers:
(By books a man may guess at the inditers.)
Some will again of that which never was,
Nor will be, feign (and that without a cause)
Such matter, raise such mountains, tell such things
Of men, of laws, of countries, and of kings;
And in their story seem to be so sage,
And with such gravity clothe every page,
That though their frontispiece says all is vain,
Yet to their way disciples they obtain.
   But, readers, I have somewhat else to do,
Than with vain stories thus to trouble you.
What here I say, some men do know so well,
They can with tears and joy the story tell.
   The town of Mansoul is well known to many,
Nor are her troubles doubted of by any
That are acquainted with those Histories
That Mansoul and her wars anatomize.
   Then lend thine ear to what I do relate,
Touching the town of Mansoul and her state:
How she was lost, took captive, made a slave:
And how against him set, that should her save;
Yea, how by hostile ways she did oppose
Her Lord, and with his enemy did close.
For they are true: he that will them deny
Must needs the best of records vilify.
For my part, I myself was in the town,
Both when ’twas set up, and when pulling down.
I saw Diabolus in his possession,
And Mansoul also under his oppression.
Yea, I was there when she own’d him for lord,
And to him did submit with one accord.
   When Mansoul trampled upon things divine,
And wallowed in filth as doth a swine;
When she betook herself unto her arms,
Fought her Emmanuel, despis’d his charms;
Then I was there, and did rejoice to see
Diabolus and Mansoul so agree.
   Let no men, then, count me a fable-maker,
Nor make my name or credit a partaker
Of their derision: what is here in view,
Of mine own knowledge, I dare say is true.
   I saw the Prince’s armed men come down
By troops, by thousands, to besiege the town;
I saw the captains, heard the trumpets sound,
And how his forces covered all the ground.
Yea, how they set themselves in battle-’ray,
I shall remember to my dying day.
   I saw the colours waving in the wind,
And they within to mischief how combin’d
To ruin Mansoul, and to make away
Her primum mobile without delay.
   I saw the mounts cast up against the town,
And how the slings were placed to beat it down:
I heard the stones fly whizzing by mine ears,
(What longer kept in mind than got in fears?)
I heard them fall, and saw what work they made.
And how old Mors did cover with his shade
The face of Mansoul; and I heard her cry,
‘Woe worth the day, in dying I shall die!’
   I saw the battering-rams, and how they play’d
To beat open Ear-gate; and I was afraid
Not only Ear-gate, but the very town
Would by those battering-rams be beaten down.
I saw the fights, and heard the captains shout,
And in each battle saw who faced about;
I saw who wounded were, and who were slain;
And who, when dead, would come to life again.
   I heard the cries of those that wounded were,
(While others fought like men bereft of fear,)
And while the cry, ‘Kill, kill,’ was in mine ears,
The gutters ran, not so with blood as tears.
   Indeed, the captains did not always fight,
But then they would molest us day and night;
Their cry, ‘Up, fall on, let us take the town,’
Kept us from sleeping, or from lying down.
   I was there when the gates were broken ope,
And saw how Mansoul then was stripp’d of hope;
I saw the captains march into the town,
How there they fought, and did their foes cut down.
   I heard the Prince bid Boanerges go
Up to the castle, and there seize his foe;
And saw him and his fellows bring him down,
In chains of great contempt quite through the town.
   I saw Emmanuel, when he possess’d
His town of Mansoul; and how greatly blest
A town his gallant town of Mansoul was,
When she received his pardon, loved his laws.
   When the Diabolonians were caught,
When tried, and when to execution brought,
Then I was there; yea, I was standing by
When Mansoul did the rebels crucify.
   I also saw Mansoul clad all in white,
I heard her Prince call her his heart’s delight.
I saw him put upon her chains of gold,
And rings, and bracelets, goodly to behold.
   What shall I say?  I heard the people’s cries,
And saw the Prince wipe tears from Mansoul’s eyes.
And heard the groans, and saw the joy of many:
Tell you of all, I neither will, nor can I.
But by what here I say, you well may see
That Mansoul’s matchless wars no fables be.
   Mansoul, the desire of both princes was:
One keep his gain would, t’other gain his loss.
Diabolus would cry, ‘The town is mine!’
Emmanuel would plead a right divine
Unto his Mansoul: then to blows they go,
And Mansoul cries, ‘These wars will me undo.’
   Mansoul! her wars seemed endless in her eyes;
She’s lost by one, becomes another’s prize:
And he again that lost her last would swear,
‘Have her I will, or her in pieces tear.’
   Mansoul! it was the very seat of war;
Wherefore her troubles greater were by far
Than only where the noise of war is heard,
Or where the shaking of a sword is fear’d;
Or only where small skirmishes are fought,
Or where the fancy fighteth with a thought.
   She saw the swords of fighting men made red,
And heard the cries of those with them wounded:
Must not her frights, then, be much more by far
Than theirs that to such doings strangers are?
Or theirs that hear the beating of a drum,
But not made fly for fear from house and home?
   Mansoul not only heard the trumpet’s sound,
But saw her gallants gasping on the ground:
Wherefore we must not think that she could rest
With them, whose greatest earnest is but jest:
Or where the blust’ring threat’ning of great wars
Do end in parlies, or in wording jars.
Mansoul! her mighty wars, they did portend
Her weal or woe, and that world without end:
Wherefore she must be more concern’d than they
Whose fears begin, and end the selfsame day;
Or where none other harm doth come to him
That is engaged, but loss of life or limb,
As all must needs confess that now do dwell
In Universe, and can this story tell.
   Count me not, then, with them that, to amaze
The people, set them on the stars to gaze,
Insinuating with much confidence,
That each of them is now the residence
Of some brave creatures: yea, a world they will
Have in each star, though it be past their skill
To make it manifest to any man,
That reason hath, or tell his fingers can.
   But I have too long held thee in the porch,
And kept thee from the sunshine with a torch,
Well, now go forward, step within the door,
And there behold five hundred times much more
Of all sorts of such inward rarities
As please the mind will, and will feed the eyes
With those, which, if a Christian, thou wilt see
Not small, but things of greatest moment be.
   Nor do thou go to work without my key;
(In mysteries men soon do lose their way;)
And also turn it right, if thou wouldst know
My riddle, and wouldst with my heifer plough;
It lies there in the window.  Fare thee well,
My next may be to ring thy passing-bell.
 

John Bunyan.