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The Pilgrim's Progress, with a Life of John Bunyan. By Robert Southey, Esq., LL.
D., Poet Laureate. Illustrated with Engravings. 8vo. London: 1831.
This is an eminently beautiful and splendid edition of a book which well
deserves all that the printer and the engraver can do for it. The Life of Bunyan
is, of course, not a performance which can add much to the literary reputation
of such a writer as Mr. Southey. But it is written in excellent English, and,
for the most part, in an excellent spirit. Mr. Southey propounds, we need not
say, many opinions from which we altogether dissent; and his attempts to excuse
the odious persecution to which Bunyan was subjected have sometimes moved our
indignation. But we will avoid this topic. We are at present much more inclined
to join in paying homage to, the genius of a great man than to engage in a
controversy concerning church-government and toleration.
We must not pass without notice the engravings with which this volume is
decorated. Some of Mr. Harvey's woodcuts are admirably designed and executed.
Mr. Martin's illustrations do not please us quite so well. His Valley of the
Shadow of Death is not that Valley of the Shadow of Death which Bunyan imagined.
At all events, it is not that dark and horrible glen which has from childhood
been in our mind's eye. The valley is a cavern: the quagmire is a lake: the
straight path runs zigzag: and Christian appears like a speck in the darkness of
the immense vault. We miss, too, those hideous forms which make so striking a
part of the description of Bunyan, and which Salvator Rosa would have loved to
draw. It is with unfeigned diffidence that we pronounce judgment on any question
relating to the art of painting. But it appears to us that Mr. Martin has not of
late been fortunate in his choice of subjects. He should never have attempted to
illustrate the Paradise Lost. There can be no two manners more directly opposed
to each other than the manner of his painting and the manner of Milton's poetry.
Those things which are mere accessories in the descriptions become the principal
objects in the pictures; and those figures which are most prominent in the
descriptions can be detected in the pictures only by a very close scrutiny. Mr.
Martin has succeeded perfectly in representing the pillars and candelabras of
Pandemonium. But he has forgotten that Milton's Pandemonium is merely the
background to Satan. In the picture, the Archangel is scarcely visible amidst
the endless colonnades of his infernal palace. Milton's Paradise, again, is
merely the background to his Adam and Eve. But in Mr. Martin's picture the
landscape is everything. Adam, Eve, and Raphael attract much less notice than
the lake and the mountains, the gigantic flowers, and the giraffes which feed
upon them. We read that James the Second sat to Varelst, the great
flower-painter. When the performance was finished, his Majesty appeared in the
midst of a bower of sun-flowers and tulips, which completely drew away all
attention from the central figure. All who looked at the portrait took it for a
flower-piece. Mr. Martin, we think, introduces his immeasurable spaces, his
innumerable multitudes, his gorgeous prodigies of architecture and landscape,
almost as unseasonably as Varelst introduced his flower-pots and nosegays. If
Mr. Martin were to paint Lear in the storm, we suspect that the blazing sky, the
sheets of rain, the swollen torrents, and the tossing forest, would draw away
all attention from the agonies of the insulted king and father. If he were to
paint the death of Lear, the old man, asking the bystanders to undo his button,
would be thrown into the shade by a vast blaze of pavilions, standards, armor,
and heralds' coats. Mr. Martin would illustrate the Orlando Furioso well, the
Orlando Innamorato still better, the Arabian Nights best of all. Fairy palaces
and gardens, porticoes of agate, and groves flowering with emeralds and rubies,
inhabited by people for whom nobody cares, these are his proper domain. He would
succeed admirably in the enchanted ground of Alcina, or the mansion of Aladdin.
But he should avoid Milton and Bunyan.
The characteristic peculiarity of the Pilgrim's Progress is that it is the only
work of its kind which possesses a strong human interest. Other allegories only
amuse the fancy. The allegory of Bunyan has been read by many thousands with
tears. There are some good allegories in Johnson's works, and some of still
higher merit by Addison. In these performances there is, perhaps, as much wit
and ingenuity as in the Progress, But the pleasure which is produced by the
Vision of Mirza, the Vision of Theodore, the Genealogy of Wit, or the Contest
between Rest and Labor, is exactly similar to the pleasure which we derive from
one of Cowley's odes, or from a canto of Hudibras. It is a pleasure which
belongs wholly to the understanding, and in which the feelings have no part
whatever. Nay, even Spenser himself, though assuredly one of the greatest poets
that ever lived, could not succeed in the attempt to make allegory interesting.
It was in vain that he lavished the riches of his mind on the House of Pride and
the House of Temperance. One unpardonable fault, the fault of tediousness,
pervades the whole of the Fairy Queen. We become sick of cardinal virtues and
deadly sins, and long for the society of plain men and women. Of the persons who
read the first canto, not one in ten reaches the end of the first book, and not
one in a hundred perseveres to the end of the poem. Very few and very weary are
those who are in at the death of the Blatant Beast. If the last six books, which
are said to have been destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved, we doubt whether
any heart less stout than that of a commentator would have held out to the end.
It is not so with the Pilgrim's Progress. That wonderful book, while it obtains
admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too
simple to admire it. Dr. Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who
hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favor of the
Pilgrim's Progress. That work was one of the two or three works which he wished
longer. It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary extracted praise
like this from the most pedantic of critics and the most bigoted of Tories. In
the wildest parts of Scotland the Pilgrim's Progress is the delight of the
peasantry. In every nursery the Pilgrim's Progress is a greater favorite than
Jack the Giant-killer. Every reader knows the straight and narrow path as well
as he knows a road in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times.
This is the highest miracle of genius, that things which are not should be as
though they were, that the imaginations 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 turn-stile, with which we are not
perfectly acquainted. The wicket-gate, and the desolate swamp which separates it
from the City of Destruction, the long line of road, as straight as a rule can
make it, the Interpreter's house and all its fair shows, the prisoner in the
iron cage, the palace, at the doors of which armed men kept guard, and on the
battlements of which walked persons clothed all in gold, the cross, and the
sepulcher, the steep hill and the pleasant arbor, the stately front of the House
Beautiful by the wayside, the chained lions crouching in the porch, the low
green valley of Humiliation, rich with grass and covered with flocks, all are as
well known to us as the sights of our own street. Then we come to the narrow
place where Apollyon strode right across the whole breadth of the way, to stop
the journey of Christian, and where, afterwards, the pillar was set up to
testify how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good fight. As we advance, the
valley becomes deeper and deeper. The shade of the precipices on both sides
falls blacker and blacker. The clouds gather overhead. Doleful voices, the
clanking of chains, and the rush of many feet to and fro, are heard through the
darkness. The way, hardly discernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of the
burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke, and its hideous
shapes to terrify the adventurer. Thence he goes on, amidst the snares and
pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of those who have perished lying in the ditch
by his side. At the end of the long dark valley he passes the dens in which the
old giants dwelt, amidst the bones 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 traveler; 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 British 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 branches off the path leading to the horrible castle,
the courtyard of which is paved with the skulls of pilgrims; and right onward
are the sheepfolds and orchards of the Delectable Mountains.
From the Delectable Mountains, the way lies through the fogs and briars of the
Enchanted Ground, with here and there a bed of soft cushions spread under a
green arbor. 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-favored 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. Wordly-Wise-man
and my Lord Hategood, Mr. Talkative, and Mrs. Timorous, all are actually
existing beings to us. We follow the travelers 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 who ever gave to the abstract the interest of the concrete. In
the works of many celebrated authors, men are mere personifications. We have not
a jealous man, but jealousy; not a traitor, but perfidy; not a patriot, 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. In this respect the genius of Bunyan bore a great
resemblance to that of a man who had very little else in common with him, Percy
Bysshe Shelley. The strong imagination of Shelley made him an idolater in his
own despite. Out of the most indefinite terms of a hard, cold, dark,
metaphysical system, he made a gorgeous Pantheon, full of beautiful, majestic,
and life-like forms. He turned atheism itself into a mythology, rich with
visions as glorious as the gods that live in the marble of Phidias, or the
virgin saints that smile on us from the canvas of Murillo. The Spirit of Beauty,
the Principle of Good, the Principle of Evil, when he treated of them, ceased to
be abstractions. They took shape and color. They were no longer mere words; but
intelligible forms, fair humanities, objects of love, of adoration, or of fear.
As there can be no stronger sign of a mind destitute of the poetical faculty
than that tendency which was so common among the writers of the French school to
turn images into abstractions, Venus for example, into Love, Minerva into
Wisdom, Mars into War, and Bacchus into Festivity, so there can be no stronger
sign of a mind truly poetical than a disposition to reverse this abstracting
process, and to make individuals out of generalities. Some of the metaphysical
and ethical theories of Shelley were certainly most absurd and pernicious. But
we doubt whether any modern poet has possessed in an equal degree some of the
highest qualities of the great ancient masters. The words bard and inspiration,
which seem so cold and affected when applied to other modern writers, have a
perfect propriety when applied to him. He was not an author, but a bard. His
poetry seems not to have been an art, but an inspiration. Had he lived to the
full age of man, he might not improbably have given to the world some great work
of the very highest rank in design and execution. But, alas!
O daphnis eba roon' ekluse dina ton Mosais philon andra, ton ou Numphaisin
apekhthi.
But we must return to Bunyan. The Pilgrim's 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
catechize Christiana's boys, as any good ladies might catechize 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. We are sure that inconsistencies, scarcely
less gross than the worst into which Bunyan has fallen, may be found in the
shortest and most elaborate allegories of the Spectator and the Rambler. The
Tale of a Tub and the History of John Bull swarm with similar errors, if the
name of error can be properly applied to that which is unavoidable. It is not
easy to make a simile go on all-fours. But we believe that no human ingenuity
could produce such a centipede as a long allegory in which the correspondence
between the outward sign and the thing signified should be exactly preserved.
Certainly no writer, ancient or modern, has yet achieved the adventure. The best
thing, on the whole, that an allegorist can do, is to present to his readers a
succession of analogies, each of which may separately be striking and happy,
without looking very nicely to see whether they harmonize with each other. This
Bunyan has done; and, though a minute scrutiny may detect inconsistencies in
every page of his tale, the general effect which the tale produces on all
persons, learned and unlearned, proves that he has done well. 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 to the Interpreter's Garden. Yet even these passages, though
we will not undertake to defend them against the objections 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.
It is very amusing and very instructive to compare the Pilgrim's Progress with
the Grace Abounding. The latter work is indeed one of the most remarkable pieces
of autobiography in the world. It is a full and open confession of the fancies
which passed through the mind of an illiterate man, whose affections were warm,
whose nerves were irritable, whose imagination was ungovernable, and who was
under the influence of the strongest religious excitement. In whatever age
Bunyan had lived, the history of his feelings would, in all probability, have
been very curious. But the time in which his lot was cast was the time of a
great stirring of the human mind. A tremendous burst of public feeling, produced
by the tyranny of the hierarchy, menaced the old ecclesiastical institutions
with destruction. To the gloomy regularity of one intolerant Church had
succeeded the license of innumerable sects, drunk with the sweet and heady must
of their new liberty. Fanaticism, engendered by persecution, and destined to
engender persecution in turn, spread rapidly through society. Even the strongest
and most commanding minds were not proof against this strange taint. Any time
might have produced George Fox and James Naylor. But to one time alone belong
the fanatic delusions of such a statesman as Vane, and the hysterical tears of
such a soldier as Cromwell.
The history of Bunyan is the history of a most excitable mind in an age of
excitement. By most of his biographers he has been treated with gross injustice.
They have understood in a popular sense all those strong terms of
self-condemnation which he employed in a theological sense. They have,
therefore, represented him as an abandoned wretch, reclaimed by means almost
miraculous, or, to use their favorite metaphor, "as a brand plucked from the
burning." Mr. Ivimey calls him the depraved Bunyan and the wicked tinker of
Elstow. Surely Mr. Ivimey ought to have been too familiar with the bitter
accusations which the most pious people are in the habit of bringing against
themselves, to understand literally all the strong expressions which are to be
found in the Grace Abounding. It is quite clear, as Mr. Southey most justly
remarks, that Bunyan never was a vicious man. He married very early; and he
solemnly declares that he was strictly faithful to his wife. He does not appear
to have been a drunkard. He owns, indeed, that, when a boy, he never spoke
without an oath. But a single admonition cured him of this bad habit for life;
and the cure must have been wrought early; for at eighteen he was in the army of
the Parliament; and if he had carried the vice of profaneness into that service,
he would doubtless have received something more than an admonition from Sergeant
Bind-their-kings-in-chains, or Captain Hew-Agag-in-pieces-before-the-Lord.
Bell-ringing and playing at hockey on Sundays seem to have been the worst vices
of this depraved tinker. They would have passed for virtues with Archbishop
Laud. It is quite clear that, from a very early age, Bunyan was a man of a
strict life and of a tender conscience. "He had been," says Mr. Southey, "a
blackguard." Even this we think too hard a censure. Bunyan was not, we admit, so
fine a gentleman as Lord Digby; but he was a blackguard no otherwise than as
every laboring man that ever lived has been a blackguard. Indeed Mr. Southey
acknowledges this. "Such he might have been expected to be by his birth,
breeding, and vocation. Scarcely, indeed, by possibility, could he have been
otherwise." A man whose manners and sentiments are decidedly below those of his
class deserves to be called a blackguard. But it is surely unfair to apply so
strong a word of reproach to one who is only what the great mass of every
community must inevitably be.
Those horrible internal conflicts which Bunyan has described with so much power
of language prove, not that he was a worse man than his neighbors, but that his
mind was constantly occupied by religious considerations, that his fervor
exceeded his knowledge, and that his imagination exercised despotic power over
his body and mind. He heard voices from heaven. He saw strange visions of
distant hills, pleasant and sunny as his own Delectable Mountains. From those
abodes he was shut out, and placed in a dark and horrible wilderness, where he
wandered through ice and snow, striving to make his way into the happy region of
light. At one time he was seized with an inclination to work miracles. At
another time he thought himself actually possessed by the devil. He could
distinguish the blasphemous whispers. He felt his infernal enemy pulling at his
clothes behind him. He spurned with his feet and struck with his hands at the
destroyer. Sometimes he was tempted to sell his part in the salvation of
mankind. Sometimes a violent impulse urged him to start up from his food, to
fall on his knees, and to break forth into prayer. At length he fancied that he
had committed the unpardonable sin. His agony convulsed his robust frame. He
was, he says, as if his breastbone would split; and this he took for a sign that
he was destined to burst asunder like Judas. The agitation of his nerves made
all his movements tremulous; and this trembling, he supposed, was a visible mark
of his reprobation, like that which had been set on Cain. At one time, indeed,
an encouraging voice seemed to rush in at the window, like the noise of wind,
but very pleasant, and commanded, as he says, a great calm in his soul. At
another time, a word of comfort "was spoke loud unto him; it showed a great
word; it seemed to be writ in great letters." But these intervals of case were
short. His state, during two years and a half, was generally the most horrible
that the human mind can imagine. "I walked," says he, with his own peculiar
eloquence, "to a neighboring town; and sat down upon a settle in the street, and
fell into a very deep pause about the most fearful state my sin had brought me
to; and, after long musing, I lifted up my head; but me thought I saw as if the
sun that shineth in the heavens did grudge to give me light; and as if the very
stones in the street, and tiles upon the houses, did band themselves against me.
Me thought that they all combined together to banish me out of the world. I was
abhorred of them, and unfit to dwell among them, because I had sinned against
the Savior. Oh, how happy now was every creature for they stood fast, and kept
their station. But I was gone and lost." Scarcely any madhouse could produce an
instance of delusion so strong, or of misery so acute.
It was through this Valley of the Shadow of Death, overhung by darkness, peopled
with devils, resounding with blasphemy and lamentation, and passing amidst
quagmires, snares, and pitfalls, close by the very mouth of hell, that Bunyan
journeyed to that bright and fruitful land of Beulah, in which he sojourned
during the latter period of his pilgrimage. The only trace which his cruel
sufferings and temptations seem to have left behind them was an affectionate
compassion for those who were still in the state in which he had once been.
Religion has scarcely ever worn a form so calm and soothing as in his allegory.
The feeling which predominates through the whole book is a feeling of tenderness
for weak, timid, and harassed minds. The character of Mr. Fearing, of Mr.
Feeble-Mind, of Mr. Despondency and his daughter Miss Much-afraid, the account
of poor Little-faith who was robbed by the three thieves of his spending money,
the description of Christian's terror in the dungeons of Giant Despair and in
his passage through the river, all clearly show how strong a sympathy Bunyan
felt, after his own mind had become clear and cheerful, for persons afflicted
with religious melancholy.
Mr. Southey, who has no love for the Calvinists, admits that, if Calvinism had
never worn a blacker appearance than in Bunyan's works, it would never have
become a term of reproach. In fact, those works of Bunyan with which we are
acquainted are by no means more Calvinistic than the articles and homilies of
the Church of England. The moderation of his opinions on the subject of
predestination gave offence to some zealous persons. We have seen an absurd
allegory, the heroine of which is named Hephzibah, written by some raving
supralapsarian preacher who was dissatisfied with the mild theology of the
Pilgrim's Progress. In this foolish book, if we recollect rightly, the
Interpreter is called the Enlightener, and the House Beautiful is Castle
Strength. Mr. Southey tells us that the Catholics had also their Pilgrim's
Progress, without a Giant Pope, in which the Interpreter is the Director, and
the House Beautiful Grace's Hall. It is surely a remarkable proof of the power
of Bunyan's genius, that two religious parties, both of which regarded his
opinions as heterodox, should have had recourse to him for assistance.
There are, we think, some characters and scenes in the Pilgrim's Progress, which
can be fully comprehended and enjoyed only by persons familiar with the history
of the times through which Bunyan lived. The character of Mr. Greatheart, the
guide, is an example. His fighting is, of course, allegorical; but the allegory
is not strictly preserved. He delivers a sermon on imputed righteousness to his
companions; and, soon after, he gives battle to Giant Grim, who had taken upon
him to back the lions. He expounds the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah to the
household and guests of Gaius; and then he sallies out to attack Slay-good, who
was of the nature of flesh-eaters, in his den. These are inconsistencies; but
they are inconsistencies which add, we think, to the interest of the narrative.
We have not the least doubt that Bunyan had in view some stout old Great-heart
of Naseby and Worcester, who prayed with his men before he drilled them, who
knew the spiritual state of every dragoon in his troop, and who, with the
praises of God in his mouth, and a two-edged sword in his hand, had turned to
flight, on many fields of battle, the swearing, drunken bravoes of Rupert and
Lunsford.
Every age produces such men as By-ends. But the middle of the seventeenth
century was eminently prolific of such men. Mr. Southey thinks that the satire
was aimed at some particular individual; and this seems by no means improbable.
At all events Bunyan must have known many of those hypocrites who followed
religion only when religion walked in silver slippers, when the sun shone, and
when the people applauded. Indeed he might have easily found all the kindred of
By-ends among the public men of his time. He might have found among the peers my
Lord Turn-about, my Lord Time-server, and my Lord Fair-speech; in the House of
Commons, Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Anything, and Mr. Facing-both-ways; nor would "the
parson of the parish, Mr. Two-tongues," have been wanting. The town of Bedford
probably contained more than one politician who, after contriving to raise an
estate by seeking the Lord during the reign of the saints, contrived to keep
what he had got by persecuting the saints during the reign of the strumpets, and
more than one priest who, during repeated changes in the discipline and
doctrines of the Church, had remained constant to nothing but his benefice.
One of the most remarkable passages in the Pilgrim's Progress is that in which
the proceedings against Faithful are described. It is impossible to doubt that
Bunyan intended to satirize the mode in which state trials were conducted under
Charles the Second. The license given to the witnesses for the prosecution, the
shameless partiality and ferocious insolence of the judge, the precipitancy and
the blind rancor of the jury, remind us of those odious mummeries which, from
the Restoration to the Revolution, were merely forms preliminary to hanging,
drawing, and quartering. Lord Hate-good performs the office of counsel for the
prisoners as well as Scroggs himself could have performed it.
"Judge. Thou runagate, heretic, and traitor, hast thou heard what these honest
gentlemen have witnessed against thee?
"Faithful. May I speak a few words in my own defense?
"Judge. Sirrah, sirrah! thou deservest to live no longer, but to be slain
immediately upon the place; yet, that all men may see our gentleness towards
thee, let us hear what thou, vile runagate, hast to say."
No person who knows the state trials can be at a loss for parallel cases.
Indeed, write what Bunyan would, the baseness and cruelty of the lawyers of
those times "sinned up to it still," and even went beyond it. The imaginary
trial of Faithful, before a jury composed of personified vices, was just and
merciful, when compared with the real trial of Alice Lisle before that tribunal
where all the vices sat in the person of Jeffreys.
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 book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the fame
of the old unpolluted English language, no book which shows so well how rich
that language is in its own proper wealth, and how little it has been improved
by all that it has borrowed.
Cowper said, forty or fifty years ago, that he dared not name John Bunyan in his
verse, for fear of moving a sneer. To our refined forefathers, we suppose, Lord
Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse, and the Duke of Buckinghamshire's Essay
on Poetry, appeared to be compositions infinitely superior to the allegory of
the preaching tinker. We live in better times; and we are not afraid to say,
that, though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the
seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative
faculty in a very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the Paradise Lost,
the other the Pilgrim's Progress.
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