sight and mind.”  He said to God, “depart from me.”  According to the later morbid estimate which stigmatized as sinful what were little more than the wild acts of a roystering dare-devil young fellow, full of animal spirits and with an unusually active imagination, he “could sin with the greatest delight and ease, and take pleasure in the vileness of his companions.”  But that the sense of religion was not wholly dead in him even then, and that while discarding its restraints he had an inward reverence for it, is shown by the horror he experienced if those who had a reputation for godliness dishonoured their profession.  “Once,” he says, “when I was at the height of my vanity, hearing one to swear who was reckoned for a religious man, it had so great a stroke upon my spirit that it made my heart to ache.”

This undercurrent of religious feeling was deepened by providential escapes from accidents which threatened his life—­“judgments mixed with mercy” he terms them,—­which made him feel that he was not utterly forsaken of God.  Twice he narrowly escaped drowning; once in “Bedford river”—­the Ouse; once in “a creek of the sea,” his tinkering rounds having, perhaps, carried him as far northward as the tidal inlets of the Wash in the neighbourhood of Spalding or Lynn, or to the estuaries of the Stour and Orwell to the east.  At another time, in his wild contempt of danger, he tore out, while his companions looked on with admiration, what he mistakenly supposed to be an adder’s sting.

These providential deliverances bring us to that incident in his brief career as a soldier which his anonymous biographer tells us “made so deep an impression upon him that he would never mention it, which he often did, without thanksgiving to God.”  But for this occurrence, indeed, we should have probably never known that he had ever served in the army at all.  The story is best told in his own provokingly brief words—­“When I was a soldier I with others were drawn out to go to such a place to besiege it.  But when I was just ready to go, one of the company desired to go in my room; to which when I consented, he took my place, and coming to the siege, as he stood sentinel, he was shot in the head with a musket bullet and died.”  Here, as is so often the case in Bunyan’s autobiography, we have reason to lament the complete absence of details.  This is characteristic of the man.  The religious import of the occurrences he records constituted their only value in his eyes; their temporal setting, which imparts their chief interest to us, was of no account to him.  He gives us not the slightest clue to the name of the besieged place, or even to the side on which he was engaged.  The date of the event is left equally vague.  The last point however we are able to determine with something like accuracy.  November, 1644, was the earliest period at which Bunyan could have entered the army, for it was not till then that he reached the regulation age of sixteen.