Progress undoubtedly is not a perfect allegory. The types
are often inconsistent with each other; and sometimes the allegorical
disguise is altogether thrown off. The river, for example, is emblematic
of death; and we are told that every human being must pass through the
river. But Faithful does not pass through it. He is martyred, not in
shadow, but in reality, at Vanity Fair. Hopeful talks to Christian about
Esau's birthright, and about his own convictions of sin, as Bunyan might
have talked with one of his own congregation. The damsels at the House
Beautiful catechise Christiana's boys, as any good ladies might catechise
any boys at a Sunday School. But we do not believe, that any man, whatever
might be his genius, and whatever his good luck, could long continue a
figurative history without falling into many inconsistencies.

The passages which it is most difficult to defend, are those in which he
altogether drops the allegory, and puts into the mouth of his pilgrims
religious ejaculations and disquisitions, better suited to his own pulpit
at Bedford or Reading, than to the Enchanted Ground or the Interpreter's
Garden. Yet even these passages, though we will not undertake to defend
them against the objection of critics, we feel that we could ill spare. We
feel that the story owes much of its charm to these occasional glimpses of
solemn and affecting subjects, which will not be hidden, which force
themselves through the veil, and appear before us in their native aspect.
The effect is not unlike that which is said to have been produced on the
ancient stage, when the eyes of the actor were seen flaming through his
mask, and giving life and expression to what would else have been an
inanimate and uninteresting disguise.

The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a
study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command over the English
language. The vocabulary is the vocabulary of the common people. There is
not an expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, which
would puzzle the rudest peasant. We have observed several pages which do
not contain a single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer has
said more exactly what he meant to say. For magnificence, for pathos, for
vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every purpose of the
poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect--the dialect of
plain working men--was perfectly sufficient. There is no bo