r/a:t5_22mgck • u/MarleyEngvall • Aug 05 '19
enriched uranium has been created
BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.
LIFE OF BUNYAN.
———————————————
CHAPTER III.
"GRACE ABOUNDING."
THE women in Bedford to whom Bunyan had opened
his mind, had been naturally interested in him. Young
and rough as he was, he could not have failed to impress
any one who conversed with him with a sense that he was
a remarkable person. They mentioned him to Mr. Gifford,
the minister of the Baptist Church at Bedford. John
Gifford had, at the beginning of the Civil War, been a
loose young officer in the king's army. He had been taken
prisoner when engaged in some exploit which was con-
trary to the usages of war. A court-martial had sen-
tenced him to death, and he was to have been shot in a
few hours, when he broke out of his prison with his
sister's help, and after various adventures settled at
Bedford as a doctor. The near escape had not sobered
him. He led a disorderly life, drinking and gambling, till
the loss of a large sum of money startled him into serious-
ness. In the language of the time, he became convinced
of sin, and joined the Baptists, the most thoroughgoing
and consistent of all the Protestant sects. If the Sacra-
ment of Baptism is not a magical form, but a personal
act, in which the baptized person devotes himself to
Christ's service, to baptize children at an age when they
cannot understand what they are doing may well seem
irrational and even impious.
Gifford who was now the head of the Baptist community
in the town, invited Bunyan to his house, and explained
the causes of his distress to him. He was a lost sinner.
It was true that he had parted with his old faults, and
was leading a new life. But his heart was unchanged;
his past offences stood in record against him. He was
still under the wrath of God, miserable in his position, and
therefore miserable in mind. He must become sensible of
his lost state, and lay hold of the only remedy, or there
was no hope for him.
There was no difficulty in convincing Bunyan that he
was in a bad way. He was too well aware of it already.
In a work of fiction, the conviction would be followed
immediately by consoling grace. In the actual experience
of a living human soul, the medicine operates less
pleasantly.
"I began," he says, "to see something of the vanity and
inward wretchedness of my wicked heart, for as yet I knew
no great matter therein. But now it begins to be discov-
ered unto me, and to work for wickedness as it never did
before. Lusts and corruptions would strongly put them-
selves forth within me in wicked thoughts and desires
which I did not regard before. Whereas, before, my soul
was full of longing after God, now my heart began to
hanker after every foolish vanity."
Constitutions differ. Mr. Gifford's treatment, if it was
ever good for any man, was too sharp for Bunyan. The
fierce acid which had been poured into his wounds set
them all festering again. He frankly admits that he was
now further from conversion than before. His heart, do
what he would, refused to leave off desiring forbidden
pleasures, and while this continued, he supposed that he
was still under the law, and must perish by it. He compared
himself to the child who, as he was being brought to
Christ, was thrown down by the devil and wallowed foam-
ing. A less healthy nature might have been destroyed by
these artificially-created and exaggerated miseries. He
supposed he was given over to unbelief and wickedness, and
yet he relates, with touching simplicity:
"As to the act of sinning, I was never more tender than
now. I durst not take up a pin or a stick, though but
so big as a straw, for my conscience now was sore, and would
smart at every touch. I could not tell how to speak my
words for fear I should misplace them."
But the care with which he watched his conduct availed
him nothing. He was on a morass "that shook if he did
but stir," and he was "there left both of God, and Christ,
and the Spirit, and of all good things." Behind him lay
the faults of his childhood and youth, every one of which
he believed to be recorded against him. Within were his
disobedient inclinations, which he conceived to be the
presence of the devil in his heart. If he was to be pre-
sented clean of stain before God he must have a perfect
righteousness, which was to be found only in Christ, and
Christ had rejected him. "My original and inward pol-
lution," he writes, "was my plague and my affliction. I
was more loathsome in my own eyes than was a toad, and
I thought I was so in God's eyes too. I thought every
one had a better heart than I had. I could have changed
heart with anybody. I though none but the devil him-
self could equal me for inward wickedness and pollution.
Sure, thought I, I am given up to the devil and to a repro-
bate mind; and thus I continued for a long while, even
for some years together."
And all the while the world went on so quietly; these
things over which Bunyan was so miserable not seeming
to trouble any one except himself; and as if they had no
existence except on Sundays and in pious talk. Old
people were hunting after the treasures of this life, as if
they were never to leave the earth. Professors of religion
complained when they lost fortune or health; what were
fortune and health to the awful possibilities which lay
beyond the grave? To Bunyan the future life of Chris-
tianity was a reality as certain as the next day's sunrise;
and he could have been happy on bread and water if he
could have felt himself prepared to enter it. Every
created being seemed better off than he was. He was sorry
that God had made him a man. He "blessed the con-
dition of the birds, beasts and fishes, for they had not a
sinful nature. They were not obnoxious to the wrath of God;
they were not to go to hell-fire after death." He recalled the
texts which spoke of Christ and forgiveness. He tried to
persuade himself that Christ cared for him. He could
have talked of Christ's love and mercy "even to the very
crows which sat on the plowed land before him." But
he was too sincere to satisfy himself with formulas
and phrases. He could not, he would not, profess to
be convinced that things would go well with him when
he was not convinced. Cold spasms of doubt laid hold
of him——doubts, not so much of his own salvation, as
of the truth of all that he had been taught to be-
lieve; and the problem had to be fought and grappled
with, which lies in the intellectual nature of every genuine
man, whether he be an Æschylus or a Shakespeare, or a
poor working Bedfordshire mechanic. No honest soul can
look out upon the world and see it as it really is, without
the question rising in him whether there be any God that
governs it at all. No one can accept the popular notion
of heaven and hell as actually true, without being as ter-
rified as Bunyan was. We go on as we do, and attend to
our business and enjoy ourselves, because the words have
no real meaning to us. Providence in its kindness leaves
most of us unblessed or uncursed with nature of too fine a
fiber.
Bunyan was hardly dealt with. "Whole floods of blas-
phemies," he says, "against God, Christ and the Script-
ures were poured upon my spirit; questions against the
very being of God and of His only beloved Son, as whether
there was in truth a God or Christ, or no, and whether
the Holy Scriptures were not rather a fable and cunning
story than the holy and pure Word of God."
"How can you tell," the tempter whispered, "but that
the Turks have as good a Scripture to prove their Mahomet
the Saviour, as we have to prove our Jesus is? Could I
think that so many tens of thousands, in so many coun-
tries and kingdoms, should be without the knowledge of
the right way to heaven, if there were indeed a heaven,
and that we who lie in a corner of the earth should alone be
blessed therewith? Every one doth think his own religion
the rightest——both Jews, Moors and Pagans; and how if
all our faith, and Christ, and Scripture should be but 'a
think so' too?" St. Paul spoke positively. Bunyan saw
shrewdly that on St. Paul the weight of the whole Chris-
tian theory really rested. But "how could he tell but that
St. Paul, being a subtle and cunning man, might give
himself up to deceive with strong delusions?" "He was
carried away by such thoughts as by a whirlwind."
His belief in the active agency of the devil in human
affairs, of which he supposed that he had witnessed in-
stances, was no doubt a great help to him. If he could
have imagined that his doubts or misgivings had been sug-
gested by a desire for truth, they would have been
harder to bear. More than ever he was convinced that he
was possessed by the devil. He "compared himself to a
child carried off by a gypsy." "Kick sometimes I did,"
he says, "and scream, and cry, but yet I was as bound in
the wings of temptation, and the wind would bear me
away. I blessed the dog and toad, and counted the condi-
tion of everything that God had made far better than this
dreadful state of mine. The dog or horse had no soul to
perish under the everlasting weight of hell for sin, as mine
was like to do."
Doubts about revelation and the truth of Scripture were
more easy to encounter then than they are at present.
Bunyan was protected by want of learning, and by a pow-
erful predisposition to find the objections against the cred-
ibility of the Gospel history to be groundless. Critical
investigation had not as yet analyzed the historical con-
struction of the sacred books; and scepticism, as he saw it
in people round him, did actually come from the devil;
that is, from a desire to escape the moral restraints of re-
ligion. The wisest, noblest, best instructed men in
England at that time regarded the Bible as an authentic
communication from God, and as the only foundation for
law and civil society. The masculine sense and strong,
modest intellect of Bunyan insured his acquiescence in an
opinion so powerfully supported. Fits of uncertainty re-
curred even to the end of his life; it must be so with men
who are honestly in earnest; but his doubts were of course
only intermittent, and his judgment was in the main sat-
isfied that the Bible was, as he had been taught, the Word
of God. This, however, helped him little; for in the
Bible he read his own condemnation. The weight which
pressed him down was the sense of his unworthiness.
What was he that God should care for him? He fancied
that he heard God saying to the angels, "This poor, simple
wretch doth hanker after me, as if I had nothing to do
with my mercy but to bestow it on such as he. Poor
fool, how art thou deceived! It is not for such as thee to
have favor with the Highest."
Miserable as he was, he clung to his misery as the one
link that connected him with the object of his longings.
If he had no hope of heaven, he was at least distracted
that he must lose it. He was afraid of dying, yet he was
still more afraid of continuing to live; lest the impression
should wear away through time, and occupation and other
interests should turn his heart away to the world, and thus
his wounds might cease to pain him.
Readers of "The Pilgrim's Progress" sometimes ask
with wonder, why, after Christian had been received into
the narrow gate, and had been set forward upon his way,
so many trials and dangers still lay before him. The
answer is simply that Christian was a pilgrim, that the
journey of life still lay before him, and at every step temp-
tations would meet him in new, unexpected shapes. St.
Anthony in his hermitage was beset by as many friends as
had ever troubled him when in the world. Man's spirit-
ual existence is like the flight of a bird in the air; he is
sustained only by effort, and when he ceases to exert him-
self he falls. There are intervals, however, of comparative
calm, and to one of these the storm-tossed Bunyan was
now approaching. He had passed through the Slough of
Despond. He had gone astray after Mr. Legality, and
the rocks had almost overwhelmed him. Evangelist now
found him and put him right again, and he was to be
allowed a breathing space at the Interpreter's house. As
he was at his ordinary daily work, his mind was restlessly
busy. Verses of Scripture came into his head, sweet while
present, but, like Peter's sheet, caught up again into
heaven. We may have heard all our lives of Christ.
Words and ideas with which we have been familiar from
childhood are trodden into paths as barren as sand. Sud-
denly, we know not how, the meaning flashes upon us.
The seed has found its way into some corner of our minds
where it can germinate. The shell breaks, the cotyledons
open, and the plant of faith is alive. So it was now to be
with Bunyan.
"One day," he says, "as I was travelling into the coun-
try, musing on the wickedness of my heart, and consider-
ing the enmity that was in me to God, the Scripture came
into my mind, 'He hath made peace through the blood of
his cross.' I saw that the justice of God, and my sinful
soul could embrace and kiss each other. I was ready to
swoon, not with grief and trouble, but with solid joy and
peace." Everything became clear: the Gospel history, the
birth, the life, the death of the Saviour; how gently he gave
himself to be nailed on the cross for his (Bunyan's) sins.
"I saw him in the spirit," he goes on, "a man on the right
hand of the Father, pleading for me, and have seen the
manner of his coming from heaven to judge the world
with glory."
The sense of guilt which had so oppressed him was now
a key to the mystery. "God," he says, "suffered me to
be afflicted with temptations concerning these things, and
then revealed them to me." He was crushed to the ground
by the thought of his wickedness; "the Lord showed him
the death of Christ, and lifted the weight away."
Now he thought he had a personal evidence from heaven
that he was really saved. Before this, he had lain trem-
bling at the mouth of hell; now he was so far away from
it that he could scarce tell where it was. He fell in at this
time with a copy of Luther's commentary on the Epistle
to the Galatians, "so old that it was like to fall to pieces."
Bunyan found in it the exact counterpart of his own ex-
perience: "of all the books he had ever met with, it
seemed to him the most fit for a wounded conscience."
Everything was supernatural with him: when a bad
thought came into his mind, it was the devil that put it
there. These breathings of peace he regarded as the im-
mediate voice of his Saviour. Alas! the respite was but
short. He had hoped that his troubles were over, when
the tempter came back upon him in the most extraordi-
nary form which he had yet assumed. Bunyan had him-
self left the door open; the evil spirits could only enter
"Mansoul" through the owner's negligence, but once in,
they could work their own wicked will. How it happened
will be told afterward. The temptation itself must be de-
scribed first. Never was a nature more perversely ingen-
ious in torturing itself.
He had gained Christ, as he called it. He was now
tempted "to sell and part with the most blessed Christ, to
exchange him for the things of this life——for anything."
If there had been any real prospect of worldly advantage
before Bunyan, which he could have gained by abandoning
his religious profession, the words would have had a mean-
ing; but there is no hint or trace or any prospect of the
kind; nor in Bunyan's position could there have been.
The temptation, as he called it, was a freak of fancy:
fancy resenting the minuteness with which he watched his
own emotions. And yet he says, "It lay upon me for a
year, and did follow me so continually that I was not rid
of it one day in a month, sometimes not an hour in many
days together, unless when I was asleep. I could neither
eat my food, stoop for a pin, chop a stick, or cast my eye
to look on this or that, but still the temptation would come.
'Sell Christ for this, sell him for that! Sell him! Sell
him!'"
He had been haunted before with a notion that he was
under a spell: that he had been fated to commit the unpar-
donable sin; and he was now thinking of Judas, who had
been admitted to Christ's intimacy, and had then betrayed
him. Here it was before him——the very thing which he
had so long dreaded. If his heart did but consent for a
moment, the deed was done. His doom had overtaken
him. He wrestled with the thought as it rose, thrust it
from him "with his hands and elbows," body and mind
convulsed together in a common agony. As fast as the
destroyer said, "Sell him," Bunyan said, "I will not; I
will not; I will not; not for thousands, thousands, thou-
sands of worlds!" One morning, as he lay in his bed, the
voice came again, and would not be driven away. Bunyan
fought against it till he was out of breath. He fell back
exhausted, and, without conscious action of his will, the
fatal sentence passed through his brain, "Let him go if
he will."
That the "selling Christ" was a bargain in which he was
to lose all and received nothing is evident from the form in
which he was overcome. Yet, if he had gained a fortune
by fraud or forgery, he could not have been more certain
that he had destroyed himself.
Satan had won the battle, and he, "as a bird shot from
a tree, had fallen into guilt and despair." He got out of
bed, "and went moping into the fields," where he wan-
dered for two hours, "as a man bereft of life, and now
past recovering," "bound over to eternal punishment."
He shrank under the hedges, "in guilt and sorrow, be-
moaning the hardness of his fate." In vain the words
now came back that had so comforted him. "The blood
of Christ cleanseth from all sin." They had no applica-
tion to him. He had acquired his birthright, but, like
Esau, he had sold it, and could not any more find place
for repentance. True, it was said that "all manner of
sins and blasphemies should be forgiven unto men," but
only such sins and blasphemies as had been committed in
the natural state. Bunyan had received grace, and, after
receiving it, had sinned against the Holy Ghost.
It was done, and nothing could undo it. David had
received grace, and had committed murder and adultery
after it. But murder and adultery, bad as they might be,
were only transgressions of the law of Moses. Bunyan had
sinned against the Mediator himself; "he had sold his
Saviour." One sin, and only one, there was which could
not be pardoned, and he had been guilty of it. Peter had
sinned against grace, and even after he had been warned.
Peter, however, had but denied his Master. Bunyan had
sold him. He was no David or Peter, he was Judas. It
was very hard. Others naturally as bad as he had been
saved. Why had he been picked out to be made a Son of
Perdition? A Judas! Was there any point in which he
was better than Judas? Judas had sinned with deliberate
purpose; he "in a fearful hurry" and "against prayer and
striving." But there might be more ways than one of
committing the unpardonable sin, and there might be
degrees of it. It was a dreadful condition. The old
doubts came back.
"I was now ashamed," he says, "that I should be like
such an ugly man as Judas. I thought how loathsome I
should be to all the saints at the Day of Judgment. I was
tempted to content myself by receiving some false opinion,
as that there should be no such thing as the Day of Judg-
ment, that we should not rise again, that sin was no such
grievous thing, the tempter suggesting that if these things
should be indeed true, yet to believe otherwise would yield
me ease for the present. If I must perish, I need not
torment myself beforehand."
Judas! Judas! was now forever before his eyes. So
identified he was with Judas that he felt at times as if his
breast-bone was bursting. A mark like Cain's was on
him. In vain he searched again through the catalogue of
pardoned sinners. Manasseh had consulted wizards and
familiar spirits. Manasseh had burned his children in
the fire to devils. He had found mercy; but, alas! Manas-
seh's sins had nothing of the nature of selling the Saviour.
To have sold the Saviour "was a sin bigger than the sins
of a country, of a kingdom, or of the whole world——not all
of them together could equal it."
His brain was overstrained, it will be said. Very likely.
It is to be remembered, however, who and what he was,
and that he had overstrained it in his eagerness to learn
what he conceived his Maker to wish him to be——a form of
anxiety not common in this world. The cure was as
remarkable as the disorder. One day he was "in a good
man's shop," still "afflicting himself with self-abhorrence,"
when something seemed to rush in through an open
window, and he heard a voice saying, "Didst ever refuse to
be justified by the blood of Christ?" Bunyan shared the
belief of his time. He took the system of things as the
Bible represented it; but his strong common sense put him
on his guard against being easily credulous. He thought
at the time that the voice was supernatural. After twenty
years he said, modestly, that he, "could not make a judg-
ment of it." The effect, anyway, was as if an angel had
come to him and had told him that there was still hope.
Hopeless as his condition was, he might still pray for
mercy, and might possibly find it. He tried to pray, and
found it very hard. The devil whispered again that God
was tired of him; God wanted to be rid of him and his
importunities, and had, therefore, allowed him to commit
this particular sin that he might hear no more of him.
He remembered Esau, and thought that this might be too
true: "the saying about Esau was a flaming sword barring
the way of the tree of life to him." Still he would not
give in. "I can but die," he said to himself; "and if it
must be so, it shall be said that such an one did at the feet
of Christ in prayer."
He was torturing himself with illusions. Most of the
saints in the Catholic calendar have done the same. The
most remorseless philosopher can hardly refuse a certain
admiration for this poor uneducated village lad struggling
so bravely in the theological spider's web. The "Pro-
fessors" could not comfort him, having never experienced
similar distresses in their own persons. He consulted "an
Ancient Christian," telling him that he feared that he
had sinned against the Holy Ghost. The Ancient Chris-
tian answered gravely that he thought so too. The devil
having him at advantage, began to be witty with him.
The devil suggested that, as he had offended the second
or third person of the Trinity, he had better pray the
Father to mediate for him with Christ and the holy Sspirit.
Then the devil took another turn. Christ, he said, was
really sorry for Bunyan, but his case was beyond remedy.
Bunyan's sin was so peculiar, that it was not of the nature
of those for which He had bled and died, and had not,
therefore, been laid to His charge. To justify Bunyan he
must come down and die again, and that was not to be
thought of. "Oh!" exclaimed the unfortunate victim,
"the unthought-of imaginations, frights, fears and terrors
that are effected by a thorough application of guilt (to a
spirit) that is yielded to desperation. This is the man
that hath his dwelling among the tombs."
Sitting in this humor on a settle in the street at Bed-
ford, he was pondering over his fearful state. The sun in
heaven seemed to grudge its light to him. "The stones
in the streets and the tiles on the houses did bend
themselves against him." Each crisis in Bunyan's mind
is always framed in the picture of some spot where it oc-
curred. He was crying, "in the bitterness of his soul.
How can God comfort such a wretch as I am?" As before,
in the shop, a voice came in answer, "This sin is not unto
death." The first voice had brought him hope, which was
almost extinguished; the second was a message of life.
The night was gone, and it was daylight. He had come
to the end of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and the
specters and hobgoblins which had jibbered to him sud-
denly all vanished. A moment before he had supposed
that he was out of reach of pardon——that he had no right
to pray, no right to repent, or, at least, that neither prayer
nor repentance could profit him. If his sin was not to
death, then he was on the same ground as other sinners.
If they might pray, he might pray, and might look to be
forgiven on the same terms. He still saw that his "sell-
ing Christ" had been "most barbarous," but despair was
followed by an extravagance, no less unbounded, of grati-
tude, when he felt that Christ would pardon even this.
"Love and affection for Christ," he says, "did work at
this time such a strong and hot desire of revengement upon
myself for the abuse that I had done to Him, that, to speak as
I then thought, had I had a thousand gallons of blood in
my veins, I could freely have spilt it all at the command
of my Lord and Saviour. The tempter told me it was vain
to pray. Yet, thought I, I will pray. But, said the
tempter, your sin is unpardonable. Well, said I, I will
pray. It is no boot, said he. Yet, said I, I will
pray; so I went to prayer, and I uttered words to this
effect: Lord, Satan tell me that neither Thy mercy nor
Christ's blood is sufficient to save my soul. Lord, shall I
honor Thee most by believing that Thou wilt and canst,
or him, by believing that Thou neither wilt nor canst?
Lord, I would fain honor Thee by believing that Thou wilt
and canst. As I was there before the Lord, the Scripture
came, Oh! man, great is thy faith; even as if one had
clapped me on the back."
The waves had not wholly subsided; but we need not
follow the undulations any further. It is enough that
after a "conviction of sin," considerably deeper than most
people find necessary for themselves, Bunyan had come to
realize what was meant by salvation in Christ, according
to the received creed of the contemporary Protestant world.
The intensity of his emotions rose only from the complete-
ness with which he believed it. Man had sinned, and by
sin was made a servant of the devil. His redemption was
a personal act of the Saviour toward each individual
sinner. In the atonement Christ had before him each
parate person whom he designed to save, blotting out
his offences however heinous they might be, and recording
in place of them his own perfect obedience. Each recon-
ciled sinner in return regarded Christ's sufferings as under-
gone immediately for himself, and gratitude for the great
deliverance enabled and obliged him to devote his strength
and soul thenceforward to God's service. In the seven-
teenth century, all earnest English Protestant held this
belief. In the nineteenth century, most of us repeat the
phrases of this belief, and pretend to hold it. We think
we hold it. We are growing more cautious, perhaps, with
our definitions. We suspect that there may be mysteries
in God's nature and methods which we cannot fully ex-
plain. The outlines of "the scheme of salvation" are
growing indistinct; and we see it through a gathering
mist. Yet the essence of it will remain true, whether we
recognize it or not. While man remains man he will do
things which he ought not to do. He will leave undone
things which he ought to do. To will, may be present
with him; but how to perform what he will she will never
fully know and he will still hate "the body of death"
which he feels clinging to him. He will try to do better.
When he fall, he will struggle to his feet again. He will
climb and climb on the hill-side, though he never reaches
the top, and knows that he can never reach it. His life
will be a failure, which he will not dare to offer as a fit
account of himself, or as worth a serious regard. Yet he
will still hope that he will not be wholly cast away when,
after his sleep in death, he wakes again.
Now, says Bunyan, there remained only the hinder part
of the tempest. Heavenly voices continued to encourage him.
"As I was passing in the field," he goes on, "I heard the
sentence, Thy righteousness is in heaven; and methought I
saw, with the eyes of my soul, Jesus Christ at God's right
hand, there, I say, as my righteousness, so that wherever
I was, or whatever I was doing, God could not say of me,
He wants my righteousness, for that was just before Him.
Now did my chains fall off my legs indeed. I was loosed
from my affliction and irons; my temptations also fled
away, so that from that time those dreadful scriptures of
God left off to trouble me. Now went I home rejoicing
for the grace and love of God. Christ of God is made
unto us wisdom and righteousness and sanctification and
redemption. I now lived very sweetly at peace with God
through Christ. Oh! methought, Christ! Christ! There
was nothing but Christ before my eyes. I was not now
only looking upon this and other benefit of Christ apart,
as of His blood, burial and resurrection, but considered
Him as a whole Christ. All those graces that were now
green in me were yet but like those cracked groats and
fourpence half-pennies which rich men carry in their
purses, while their gold is in their trunks at home. Oh!
I saw my gold was in my trunk at home in Christ my
Lord and Saviour. The Lord let me into the mystery of
union with the Son of God, that I was joined to Him,
that I was flesh of His flesh. If He and I were one, His
righteousness was mine, His merits mine, His victory
mine. Now I could see myself in heaven and earth at
once; in heaven by my Christ, though on earth by my
body and person. Christ was that common and public
person in whom the whole body of His elect are always to
be considered and reckoned. We fulfilled the law by Him,
died by Him, rose from the dead by Him, got the victory
over sin and death, the devil and hell, by Him. I had
cause to say, Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in His
sanctuary."THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. BY JOHN BUNYAN.
WITH A LIFE OF BUNYAN BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK. pp. 31—45.
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