18 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. |

course, reads it for guidance and encouragement in his own conflicts and perils; and the aged saint
lingering for a while on the river’s brink, before the messenger summons him into the presence of
the King, testifies to the accuracy with which it pictures the serene and mellowed joys of the land of
Beulah—the celestial air which the pilgrim breathes, the celestial fragrance which is wafted from on
high, the celestial visitants with whom he holds converse as he nears his journey’s end; and the
dull eye brightens, and the withered countenance glows with rapture, as, by the pilgrim’s passage
of the river, and entrance at the gates, he is led to anticipate his own. It is wonderful that any
man should have written a book of such universal and enduring popularity. More wonderful still
that it should have been written in prison by an uneducated tinker, the descendant of a vagrant
tribe—written spontaneously and unconseiously—not as an effort, but as a relief from mental fulness
—as the thoughts came crowding up in all their freshness in an untrained but singularly original:
and fertile mind.

With all its popularity and excellence, it is easy to see that the book is not without faults, Its
theology, scriptural in the main, is colored by his own experience. The long and painful journey
which Christian makes with his burden before he finds relief at the cross, though it accords with
fact often, is somewhat at variance with the Scripture ideal. The Second Part shows some improve-
ment on the First in this respect; but there, too, the cross is placed too far on the way. It should
have been at the wicket-gate, and not at the further side of the Interpreter’s house; for there is
really no true progress heavenward until the cross is seen. As an allegory, moreover, it presents, as
it could scarcely fail, some obvious inconsistencies, The wicket-gate is the proper entrance to the
pilgrim’s course; and yet Hopeful enters it not through the wicket-gate, but at Vanity Fair, which
is far on the way. Faithful, again, leaves it not by the river, which represents death, but is taken
up in a chariot of fire. These and such like discrepancies are obvious to every reader ; and the best
excuse for them is that his purpose rendered them unavoidable. It was not possible by any consistent
allegory to set forth so many distinct phases of spiritual life.

The wonder is not that there are inconsistencies in the allegory, but that these are so few and
the beauties of the book so manifold. “It is the highest miracle of genius,” says Macaulay, “ that
things which are not should be as though they were, that the imagination of one mind should become
the personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker has wrought. There is no ascent,
no declivity, no resting-place, no turnstile, with which we are not per‘ectly acquainted.” His characters,
though some of them are mere embodiments of abstract qualities, are painted with equal vividness.
They are marked with individuality as much as if they were real personages who had sat for their
portraits. There is no danger of our mistaking one for another ; and such is the impression they
produce on our minds, that, when once we have made acquaintance with them, they are not easily
forgotten. Stern as he is in his treatment of wrong, and especially in peeling off the skin from
sanctimonious villainy, what a depth of tenderness there is in his nature, and what a keen apprecia-
tion of the beautiful he now and again displays! When he writes of Christiana in the Second Part
there is a perceptible softening in his tone; and the incidents of the journey are suited to the delicacy
of woman and the tenderness of youth; for the writer knew well, and had himself imbibed, the
spirit of Him “ Who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb”—“ Who gathers the lambs in His arms,
and carries them in His bosom.” The quiet beauty of some of his scenes, and the soft light which
falls on them, is perfectly charming; and all the more noticeable as contrasted with the lurid
grandeur of others. What a sweet picture is that Palace Beautiful, with its waiting damsels and its
chamber of peace—* the country birds that, in the spring-time, sing all day long in a most curious,
melodious note,” one carolling, as Christiana listens with words much like these :