vrath," condemned from our birth, guilty by nature, justly predestined to destruction. Beneath this formidable thought the heart gives way. The unhappy man relates how he trembled in all his limbs, and in his fits it seemed to him as though the bones of his chest would break. "One day," he tells us, "I walked to a neighboring town, and Bat down upon a settle in the street, and fell into a very deep pause about the most fearful state my sin had bright me to; and after long musing, I lifted up my head, but methought I saw, as if the sun that shineth in the heavens did grudge to give light; and as if the very stones in the street, and tiles upon the houses, did band themselves against me. O how happy now was every creature over I was! For hey stood fast, and kept their station, but I was gone and lost." The devils gathered together against the repentant sinner; they choked his sight, besieged him with phantoms, yelled at his side to drag him down their precipices; and the black valley into which the pilgrim plunges, almost matches by the horror of its symbols the agony of the terrors by which he is assailed:

I saw then in my Dream, so far as this Valley reached, there was on the right hand a very deep Ditch; that Ditch is it into which the blind have led the blind in all ages, and have both there miserably perished. Again, be hold on the left hand, there was a very dangerous Quag, into which, if even a good man falls, he can find no bottom for his foot to stand

a long fight he conquers him. Yet the way grows narrow, the shades fall thicker, sulphurous flames rise along the road: it is the valley, of the Shadow of Death. He passes it, and arrives at the town of Vanity, a vast fair of business, deceits, and shows, which he walks by with lowered eyes, not wishing to take part in ts festivities or falsehoods. The people of the pace beat him, throw him into prison, condemn hi as a traitor and rebel, burn his companion Faithful. Escaped from their hands, he falls into those of Giant Despair, who beats him, leaves him in a poisonous dungeon without ood, and giving him daggers and cords, advises aim to rid himself from so many misfortunes. A last he reaches the Delectable Mountains, whence he sees the holy city. To enter it he has only to cross a deep river, where there is no foothold, where the water dims the sight, and

which is called the river of Death.

Bunyar's Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners, § 187.

more put to it; for when he sc ignt in the dark to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was ready when he sought to escape the mire, without to tip over into the mire on the other; also great carefulness he would be ready to fall into the ditch. Thus he went on, and I heard him here sigh bitterly; for, besides the dangers mentioned above, the path-way was here so dark, that ofttimes, when he lift up bis foot to set forward he knew not where, or upon what he should set it next.

that he was

the mouth of Hell to be, and it stood also bard "About the midst of this Valley, I perceived by the wayside. Now, thought Christian, what shall I do? And ever and anon the flame and smoke would come out in such abundance, with forced to put up his Sword, and betake himself sparks and hideous noises. . to another weapon, called All-prayer. So he cried in my hearing: O Lord, I beseech thee Thus he went on a great deliver my soul.' while, yet still the flames would be reaching to wards him: Also he heard doleful voices, and rushings to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he should be torn in pieces, or trodden down like mire in the Streets.”

Against this agony, neither his good deeds, nor his prayers, nor his justice, nor all the justice and all the prayers of all other men, could defend him. Grace alone justifies. God must impute to him the purity of Christ, and save him by a free choice. What can be more full of passion than the scene in which, under the name of his poor pil grim, he relates his own doubts, his conversion, his joy, and the sudden change of his heart?

"Then the water stood in mine eyes, and I asked further, But, Lord, may such a great sinner as I am be indeed accepted of thee, and be saved by thee? And I heard him him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast say, And out.... And now was my heart full of joy, mine eyes full of tears, and mine affections running over with love to the Name, People, and Ways of Jesus Christ.

...

"It made me see that all the World, not withstanding all the righteousness thereof, is in a state of condemnation. It made me see that God the Father, though he be just, can justly justify the coming sinner. It made me greatly ashamed of the vileness of my former life, and confounded me with the sense of mine own ig. norance; for there never came thought into my heart before now, that shewed me so the beauty of Jesus Christ. It made me love a holy life, and long to do something for the Honour and Glory of the Name of the Lord Jesus; yea, I thought that had I ow a thousand gallons of blood in my body, I could spill it all for the sake of the Lord Jesus." t

Such an emotion does not weigh literary calculations. Allegory, the most artificial kind, is natural to Bunyan. If

*Pilgrim's Progress, Cambridge 1862, Firs Part, p. 64. ↑ Ibid. p. 160.

he employs it here, it is because he does so throughout; if he employs it throughout, it is from necessity, not choice. As children, countrymen, and all uncultivated minds, he transforms arguments into parables; he only grasps truth when it is clothed in images; abstract terms elude him; he must touch forms and contemplate colors. Dry general truths are a sort of algebra, acquired by the mind slowly and after much trouble, against our primitive inclination, which is to observe detailed events and visible objects; man being incapable of contemplating pure formulas until he is transformed by ten years' reading and reflection We understand at once the term purification of heart; Bunyan understands it fully only, after translating it by this fable :

"Then the Interpreter took Christian by the hand, and led him into a very large Parlour that was full of dust, because never swept; the which after he had reviewed a little while, the Interpreter called for a man to sweep. Now when he began to sweep, the dust began so abundantly to fly about, that Christian had almost therewith been choaked. Then said the Interpreter to a Damsel that stood by, Bring hither the Water, and sprinkle the Room; the which when she had done, it was swept and cleansed with pleasure.

"Then said Christian, What means this?

"The Interpreter answered, This Parlour is the hea of man that was never sanctified by the set Grace of the Gospel: the dust is his Original Sin and inward Corruptions, that have defiled the whole man. He that began to sweep at first, is the Law; but she that brought water, and did sprinkle it, is the Gospel. Now, whereas thou sawest that so soon as the first began to sweep, the dust did so fly about that the Room by him could not be cleansed, but tl at thou wast almost choaked there with; this is to shew thee, that the Law, instead of cleans ing the heart (by its working) from sin, doth revive, put strength into and increase it in the soul, even as it doth discover and forbid it for it doth not give power to subdue.

"Again, as thou sawest the Damsel sprinkle the room with Water, upon which it was cleansed with pleasure; this is to shew thee that when the Gospel comes in the sweet and precious influences thereof to the heart, then I say, ever as thou sawest the Damsel lay the dust by sprinkling the floor with Water, so is sin vanquished and subdued, and the soul made clean, through the faith of it, and consequent ly fit for the King of Glory to inhabit." ** These repetitions, embarrassed phrases, fan.iliar comparisons, this artless style, whose awkwardness recalls the childish periods of Herodotus, and whose

* Pilgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 26.

simplicity recalls tales for children prove that if his work is allegorical, it is so in order that it may be intelligible, and that Bunyan is a poet because be is a child.*

If you study him well, however, you will find power under his simplicity. and in his puerility the vision. These allegories are hallucinations as clear, complete, and sound as ordinary per. ceptions. No one but Spenser is so lucid. Imaginary objects rise of them. selves before him. He has no trouble in calling them up or forming them They agree in all their details with all the details of the precept which they represent, as a pliant veil fits the body which it covers. He distinguishes and arranges all the parts of the landscapehere the river, on the right the castle, a flag on its left turret, the setting sun three feet lower, an oval cloud in the front part of the sky-with the preciseness of a land-surveyor. We fancy in reading him that we are looking at the old maps of the time, in which the striking features of the angular cities are marked on the copperplate by a tool as certain as a pair of compasses.t Dialogues flow from his pen as in a dream. He does not seem to be think.

ing; we should even say that he was not himself there. Events and speeches seem to grow and dispose themselves within him, independently of his will. Nothing, as a rule, is colder than the characters in an allegory; his are living. Looking upon these details, so

son,

Here is another of his allegories, almost witty, so just and simple it is. See Pilgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 68: Now I saw in my Dream, that at the end of this Valley lay blood, bones, ashes, and mangled bodies of men, even of Pilgrims that had gone this way formerly; and while I was musing what should be the reatwo Giants, Pope and Pagan, dwelt in old I espied a little before me a Cave, where time; by whose power and tyranny the men whose bones, blood, ashes, etc., lay there, were cruelly put to death. But by this place Chris tian went without much danger, whereat 1 somewhat wondered; but I have learnt since, that Pagan has been dead many a day; and by reason of age, and also of the many shrewd as for the other, though he be yet alive, he is brushes that he met with in his younger days, grn so crazy, and stiff in his joints, that he can now do little more than sit in his Cave's mouth, grinning at Pilgrims as they go by, and biting his nails, because he cannot come a them.

↑ For instance, Hollar's work, Cities of Ger

many.

us.

Giant Despair, a simple abstraction, becomes as real in his hands as an English gaoler or farmer. He is heard talking by night in bed with his wife Diffidence, who gives him good advice, because here, as in other households, the strong and brutal animal is the least cunning of the two :

...

"Then she counselled him that when he rose in the morning he should (take the two prisoners and) beat them without mercy. So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous Crabtree Cudgel, and goes down into the Dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, although they gave him never a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort, that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor."**

This stick, chosen with a forester's experience, this instinct of rating first and storming to get oneself into trim for knocking down, are traits which attest the sincerity of the narrator, and succeed in persuading the reader. Bunyan has the copiousness, the tone, the ease, and the clearness of Homer; he is as close to Homer as an Anabaptist tinker could be to an heroic singer, a creator of gods.

I err; he is nearer. Before the sentiment of the sublime, inequalities are levelled. The depth of emotion raises peasant and poet to the same eminence; and here also, allegory stands the peasant in stead. It alone, in the absence of ecstasy, can paint heaven; for it does not pretend to paint it: expressing it by a figure, it declares it invisible, as a glowing sun at which we cannot look straight, and whose image we observe in a mirror or a stream. The ineffable world thus retains all its mystery; warned by the allegory, we imagine splendors beyond all which it presents to us; we feel behind the beauties which are opened to us, the infinite which is concealed; and the ideal city, vanishing as soon as it appears, ceases to resemble the material Whitehall imagined for Jehovah by Milton. Read the arrival of the pilgrims in the celestial land. Saint Theresa has nothing more beautiful :

"Yea, here they heard continually the singing of Birds, and saw every day the Flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice of the

*Pilgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 136.

"Now as they walked in this land, they had more rejoicing than in parts more remote from the Kingdom tc which they were bound; and drawing near to the City, they had yet a more perfect view thereof. It was builded of Pearls and Precious Stones, also the Street thereof was paved with gold; so that by reason of the natural glory of the City, and the reflection of the Sun-beams upon it, Christian with desire fell sick; Hopeful also had a fit or two of the same disease. Wherefore here they lay by it a while, crying out because of their pangs, It you see my Beloved, tell him that I am sick of love."

agility and speed, though the foundation upon which the City was framed was higher than the Clouds. They therefore went up through the Regions of the Air, sweetly talking as they over the River, and had such glorious Comwent, being comforted, because they safely get panions to attend them.

"They therefore went up here with much

"The talk that they had with the Shining Ones was about the glory of the place, who told them that the beauty and glory of it was inexpressible. There, said they, is the Mount Sion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innumerable company of Angels, and the Spirits of just they, to the Paradise of God, wherein you men made perfect. You are going now, said shall see the Tree of Life, and eat of the neverfading fruits thereof; and when you come there, you shall have white Robes given you, and King, even all the days of Eternity. your walk and talk shall be every day with the

"There came out also at this time to meet them, several of the King's Trumpeters, cloathed in white and shining Raiment, who with melodious noises and loud, made even the Heavens to echo with their sound. These Trumpeters saluted Christian and his fellow with ten thousand welcomes from the World, and this they did with shouting and sound of Trumpet.

"This done, they compassed them round on every side; some went before, some behind, and some on the right hand, some on the left Regions), continually sounding as they went (as 't were to guard them through the upper with melodious noise, in notes on high; so that the very sight was to them that could behold it, as if Heaven itself was come down to meet them.

"And now were these two men as 't were in Heaven before they came at it, being swallowe up with the sight of Angels, and with hearing of their melodious notes. Here also they had the City itself in view, and they thought they heard

thoughts that they had about their own dwell

ing there with such company, and that for ever and ever. Oh by what tongue or pen can their glorious joy be expressed!"*

CHAPTER VI. Milton.

your

"Now, just as the Gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after them, and behold, the City shone like the Sun; the Streets also were paved with Gold, and in them walked many men, with Crowns on their heads, Palms in their hands, and golden Harps to sing praises

withal.

"There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one another without intermission, saying, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord.' And after that they shut up the Gates. Which when I had seen, I wished myself among

them." t

He was imprisoned for twelve years and a half; in his dungeon he made wire-snares to support himself and his family; he died at the age of sixty in 1688. At the same time Milton lingered obscure and blind. The last two poets of the Reformation thus survived, amid the classical coldness which then dried up English literature, and the social excess which then corrupted English morals. "Shorn hypocrites, psalm-singers, gloomy bigots," such were the names by which men who reformed the manners and renewed the constitution of England were insulted. But oppressed and insulted as they were, their work continued of itself and without noise underground; for the ideal which they had raised was, after all, that which the clime suggested and the race demanded. Gradually Puritanism began to approach the word, and the world to approach Puritanism. The Restoration was to fall into evil odor, the Revolution was to come, and beneath the gradual progress of national sympathy, as well as under the incessant effort of public reflection, parties and doctrines were to

Pilgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 182.
Ibid. p. 183, etc.

ON the borders of the licentious Ro naissance which was drawing to a c.ose, and of the exact school of poetry whick was springing up, between the monot onous conceits of Cowley and the cor

mighty and superb mind, prepare 1 by logic and enthusiasm for eloquence and the epic style; liberal, Protestant, a moralist and a poet, adorning the cause of Algernon Sidney and Locke with the inspiration of Spenser and Shakspeare; the heir of a poetical age, the precursor of an austere age, holding his place between the epoch of unselfish dreaming and the epoch of practical action; like his cwn Adam, who, taking his way to an unfriendly land, heard behind him, in the closed Eden, the dying strains of heaven.

John Milton was not one of those fevered souls void of self-command, whose rapture takes them by fits, whom a sickly sensibility drives forever tc the extreme of sorrow or joy, whose pliability prepares them to produce a variety of characters, whose inquietude condemns them to paint the madness and contradictions of passion. Vast knowledge, close logic, and grand pas sion; these were his marks. His mind was lucid, his imagination limited. He was incapable of "bating one jot of heart or hope," or of being transformed He conceived the loftiest of ideal beauties, but he conceived only one. was not born for the drama, but for the ode. He does not create souls, but constructs arguments, and experiences emotions. Emotions and arguments all the forces and actions of his soul assemble and are arranged beneath a unique sentiment, that of the sublime; and the broad river of lyric poetry streams from him, impetuous, with even flow, splendid as a cloth of gold.

L.

He

This dominant sense constituted the