which have ever tales to tell to the thoughtful and the imaginative, we would rather have had him imprisoned on the bridge than in the town-we would rather think of him there than among the houses: pass the waters ever so slowly, still there is freedom in the very bubbles that float upon the

stream.

But we may, without scruple, indulge the remembrance that the last four years of Bunyan's imprisonment was little more than nominal confinement; for during that period he regularly attended the Baptist meeting, his name being always in the records, and in the eleventh year of his 'incarceration,' the congregation chose him for their pastor.

His character had obtained respect; his books, notice and renown. Dr. Barlow, then Bishop of Lincoln, and other prelates, are believed to have sympathised with his sufferings and assisted in procuring his enlargement. This might be considered an OMEN of the future universality of his fame-the highest fame mortality

can hope to achieve.

In the full grave-yard of the meeting-house, there is but one tablet which bears the name of Bunyan; it is to the memory of Hannah Bunyan, a great-grandchild of Bunyan, who died in 1770, aged 76 years, there is no record of the burial of either of his wives :* -we went to see the spot where his house in Bedford stood, and which was indeed a Shrine, for he lived there during the greater part of his permitted ministry; and it will be always not purchased and preserved by the

matter of regret, that it was members of the old meeting,'

* We are told in the old edition of his works by Charles Doe- As to his family, he left his widow, Elizabeth, and three sons; John, Thomas, and Joseph, and three daughters, Elizabeth, Sarah, and Mary; but his blind daughter (of whom he writes in his "Graco Abounding ") died some years before him, and his widow died 1699.'

when it was offered them before its destruction;—we procured, however, a drawing of it, which we have here engraved.*

Bunyan had many friends in London, and frequently journeyed thither, and whenever his preaching was announced, the meeting was crowded to suffocation by his admirers. He was never free from apprehension of what might befal him from the powers that were; and, soon after James II. came to the throne in 1685, Bunyan conveyed the whole of his property to his wife by a singular deed which still exists; whatever evil he may have feared from the second James, he experienced none; but worked on-by word of mouth and power of pen, by the body and by the spirit, until his fine constitution quailed beneath over-labour. He suffered from what was called the sweating distemper;' and while his health was much impaired by its effects, undertook a journey to Reading, to reconcile a young friend to his father. The exertion proved too much for his strength; and after an illness of ten days, at the age of sixty years, 'his strong man bowed under him,' and his burden was laid at the feet of his Saviour.

son of

Bunyan's son Thomas succeeded him in the ministry; but though he won respect, he never achieved admiration; indeed, no Bunyan's could shine while the glory of his father was remembered. Of his other children nothing is recorded, and even the exact spot of the Pilgrim's rest, in Bunhill Fields, seems undecided.

An aged lady, whose testimony is always sound, told us, that in her girlish days she has stood by the side of John Bunyan's grave in Bunhill Fields; she remembers it perfectly; the first time she ever saw it, it was shown her by her maid, a pious young person, who induced her, when she was little more than a child, to go and hear John Wesley preach-earlyearly on a summer's morning, to a hundred ministers who were about to proceed to various parts of the world; and, after the sermon, this girl took her to see the grave of the author of The Pilgrim's Progress;'-it was, she says, a decayed-looking grave, some brick-work fallen down, and a sort of head stone, green and mouldering, upon which was what she calls faintly carved, Here lies John Bunyan.' Often in days long passed, when the 'Pilgrim's Progress' was laid in her lap, and we read therein, has she

The cottage was in the parish of St. Cuthbert, in the street opposite the meeting-house, and here Bunyan lived while he was pastor, from 1681 to 1688.

told us of this humble grave, and promised when we went to London we should see it it was associated in our mind with the dead in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's; but when we did see it, and described to her that it was a fair large tomb, she was greatly pained in the belief that his body had been removed-a belief which Mr. Philip inclines to.

The vault beneath the tomb that bears his name, is that of his friend Strudwick, a grocer on Snow Hill, at whose house, after his journey to Reading, he was taken ill-and perhaps he died there.

He would rather, we think, have chosen to repose where his wife Elizabeth could have been placed beside him, than in the stately vault of his friend; and the relation in which he stood to the Lord Mayor of London, at the time of his death-being his chaplain, or, as Southey proves from Ellis's Correspondence, his teacher'-would entitle him, if nothing else did, to a resting-place of his own. Mr. Philip believes he was originally interred in the 'Baptist corner ' of the burying-ground at Bunhill Fields; but the fact of his being interred 'somewhere' within the place of tombs' sanctifies the enclosure, though we regret that the old stone bearing the inscription is nowhere seen. Our venerable informant is positive as to the words 'Here lies John Bunyan,' as she frequently visited the grave, and speaks of it to this day. Mr. Philip says that none of Bunyan's descendants are now in England; we have reason to believe that this is an error; when we were in Bedford, Mr. Jukes gave us the address of a very old lady in London, who claims to be a descendant of John Bunyan, and is possessed of a portrait of her ancestor, which she has left by will, to be given after her death to the old meeting;' on our return to town we set forth to seek her, and drove to the 'Angel' at Islington, within a few doors of which we were told she resided. We only arrived in time to be too late; Mrs. Sanigear had quitted her lodgings the day before; the landlady assured us she did not know were she was gone. 'She was so very odd-she liked none but her own people, the same as John Bunyan's. took the old preacher's picture with her.' between the ladies; and must confess our by referring to the picture we so much wished to see, in so irreverent a manner; so we drove away, wrote to Mr. Jukes, who very kindly procured for us Mrs. Sanigear's new address, and the next time we went to town, we

Yes; she left yesterday, and We saw there had been a feud informant lost in our good opinion,

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paid her a visit. The name of the 'old meeting' was an Open sesame,' and she pointed to the portrait of her ancestor with evident pride. It is not an original,' she said; 'but was copied from an original that was painted on glass; adding so they said when I was a girl many years ago, for in six months I shall be eighty-eight years old.' Despite her years, there is fire in her dark deep eyes, and an expression of both humour and severity in her mouth. We observed how very like she was to the portrait; she admitted that every one said the same, they all said she was like to it: she might have been once, but not now, for he died young, only sixty, quite young, but she was nearly ninety, only wanted two years and six months to be ninety all out.' She was his great-great-grand-daughter, and we understood her to say, she had a nephew who bore the name of Bunyan; we felt inclined to question as to which of the nonconformist's children she was descended from, but she did not like being questioned, at least she did not like the trouble of reply; she spoke of the old meeting' with animation, and looking at the picture repeated more than once 'He was a great pilgrim, a faithful pilgrim!' She told us she had left THE PICTURE to the old meeting,' but added that no one from the town of Bedford had ever called upon her, until Mr. Jukes had done so. She was kind and even cordial, but there was a natural severity in her tone and manner which savoured of the Puritans of old times. She would not permit the little maid who showed us up, to attend us down-stairs, but did so herself, standing at the open door after an assurance of how glad she would be to see us again.

She is not easily forgotten; her formal dress, close cap, and snowy neckerchief-pinned down as you see in portraits of some sixty or seventy years ago and above all, the earnest steadfast expression of her face, telling of firmness of the most immovable kind, softened by a world of affection in her deep brown eyes. She was a singular link between the present and the past; and we make no doubt, would at this moment be willing to suffer imprisonment or death for the sake, not only of her general faith, but for any one point thereof. We ought to have inquired of her about the tomb; but we are unwilling to press questions on old age, and all who pass Bunhill Fields burying-ground, whatever doubts may arise as to this spot or that, may safely say—

There lies JOHN BUNYAN.

THE BURIAL-PLACE OF JOHN HAMPDEN.

UST at the close of the summer of 1848, it was our privilege to sojourn at a hospitable old English house in Hertfordshire; a stately mansion with abundant space, and yet, withal, so comfortable, and suggestive! every nook fitted with old story-telling cabinets, or great high book-cases crammed with rare books, books that conjure up old memories, talk in quaint language, and have a dark-determined-knowledge look. The walls, too, were impressive teachers, hung with fine portraits-Vandyck, Lely, and Sir Joshua, speaking from the canvas. And when our eyes were uplifted from the page, it was so delightful to us city dwellers to gaze out of the large windows into the green park, diving through dark recesses and deep hollows-beneath huge 'Patrician trees.' So still, so solitary, was the dwelling, that, but for the hallowing view of the Church tower, and the smoke from the adjacent village of Aldbury, we might have believed ourselves détenus in the happy valley.' It was so delicious to watch the clouds gathering over Moneybury Hill to canter through the never-ending green drives of Ashridge-to wonder at the tameness of the forest deer-to speculate on the geological formation of Incombe-hole, where giants might play at bowls-to creep among the venerable box-hedges, and appreciate the taste of the old monks