nes
and ashes of those whom they had slain.

Then the road passes straight on through a waste moor, till at length the
towers of a distant city appear before the traveller; and soon he is in
the midst of the innumerable multitudes of Vanity Fair. There are the
jugglers and the apes, the shops and the puppet-shows. There are Italian
Row, and French Row, and Spanish Row, and Britain Row, with their crowds
of buyers, sellers, and loungers, jabbering all the languages of the earth.

Thence we go on by the little hill of the silver mine, and through the
meadow of lilies, along the bank of that pleasant river which is bordered
on both sides by fruit-trees. On the left side, branches off the path
leading to that horrible castle, the courtyard of which is paved with the
skulls of pilgrims; and right onwards are the sheepfolds and orchards of
the Delectable Mountains.

From the Delectable Mountains, the way lies through the logs and briers of
the Enchanted Ground, with here and there a bed of soft cushions spread
under a green arbour. And beyond is the land of Beulah, where the flowers,
the grapes, and the songs of birds never cease, and where the sun shines
night and day. Thence are plainly seen the golden pavements and streets of
pearl, on the other side of that black and cold river over which there is
no bridge.

All the stages of the journey,--all the forms which cross or overtake the
pilgrims,--giants and hobgoblins, ill-favoured ones, and shining
ones,--the tall, comely, swarthy Madam Bubble, with her great purse by her
side, and her fingers playing with the money,--the black man in the bright
vesture,--Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, and my Lord Hategood,--Mr. Talkative, and
Mrs. Timorous,--all are actually existing beings to us. We follow the
travellers through their allegorical progress with interest not inferior
to that with which we follow Elizabeth from Siberia to Moscow, or Jeanie
Deans from Edinburgh to London. Bunyan is almost the only writer that ever
gave to the abstract the interest of the concrete. In the works of many
celebrated authors, men are mere personifications. We have not an Othello,
but jealousy; not an Iago but perfidy; not a Brutus, but patriotism. The
mind of Bunyan, on the contrary, was so imaginative, that personifications,
when he dealt with them, became men. A dialogue between two qualities, in
his dream, has more dramatic effect than a dialogue between two human
beings in most plays.

The Pilgrim's