work, that Bunyan was of any religious persuasion, save that he was a living member of the church of Christ.

And this is one of its supremest merits. It belongs to no sect. It is Christianity, pure Christianity, and not churchism. You cannot say, from the perusal of that work, whether its author were a Presbyterian, or a Baptist, or a Congregationalist, or a Methodist, or an Episcopalian, or a Calvinist, or a Lutheran; only that he did not mean, in drawing his own portrait of a true Christian, that he should belong to any of these parties exclusively; or, if there were any one of these that approached nearest to the Bible, in its comprehensive Christ-like, gentle, and forbearing spirit, it should be that. The portraiture was a compound of what was excellent in them all; for what was truly excellent they all drew from the Bible, and the Pilgrim's Progress was drawn from the Bible, and from no sect, from nothing at second-hand. There is no ite, nor ian, nor ist, that you dare put to Christian's name; no lisping, halting Shibboleth of a party; for he came from the mint of the Holy Scriptures, where no party names disgrace the glory of Christianity; where men are neither of Paul, nor Apollos, nor Cephas, but of Christ; and so, blessed be God, under his guidance Bunyan made Christian no Church-man, but Christ's-man. That is good, that is noble! as great a proof, almost, of the excellence of Bunyan's book, as it is of the divine origin of Christianity that to the poor the Gospel is preached.

And now, in very truth, if Dr. Scott, or any other man of like candour, finds in this book, which is drawn only from the Bible, the pure outlines of the Calvinistic system, then, so far, there is a presumption in favour of the Calvinistic system; and it is a compliment which Dr. Scott pays to that system, when he says it is to be found in a book, which is taken directly from the Bible. But in very truth, you can say no more of the Pilgrim's Progress, that it is the Calvinistic system, than you could say of Raphael's great picture of the Transfiguration, that it was copied from Washington Allston. You may say both of Bunyan and of Calvin that they were children of God, and drank at the fountain of the Holy Scriptures, and were fed and nourished by God's word; and that so far as their systems resemble each other, it is proof of their likeness to their divine original; but that either copied or contains the other, you cannot say. Just as you might say of both Raphael and Allston, that their genius was a gift from God; one far superior to the other, indeed, but neither an imitator, both original, both from God.

There has been in this world too much of the imitation of great names and great authorities in theology, and too little of exclusive adherence to the Bible; too much human nomenclature, and too little divine baptism. A Christian man may say, and ought to say, I would not give much for any compliment to my theology, nor thank you for any description of it, that likens it, and much less that links it, to Calvin's, or Luther's, or Archbishop Usher's, excellent though they all be; and much less to any man's system or authority nearer to my times, or contemporary with me. I follow Christ, Paul, and the Holy Scriptures, and not Emmons, or Edwards, or Jeremy Taylor, or the Prayer Book Homilies, nor any man's authority, be he Augustine or Tertullian, Cherubim or Seraphim. O for the spirit of combined independence and humility that characterized the noble company of martyrs and reformers! We need a greater independence of all human authority, church or individual, and a more entire dependence on the word and the Spirit of God. This makes a true theologian; and doubtless, if we could all be shut up in prison for twelve years, like Bunyan, with nothing but the Bible, and Foxe's old Book of Martyrs, we too should come out with a living theology, drawn from no man's system, but ready to set all men's hearts on fire. Indeed, indeed, this is what is needed in this day of the resurrection of rites and forms and apostolical successions, and patristical authorities, and traditions of the fathers, and of the rags of Judaism itself patched and gilded anew; this return to the Scriptures solely, and the Spirit of God, is what is needed. And here let me say, in this connection, that it was a great thing in that personal experience, by which God prepared Bunyan to write the Pilgrim's Progress, that he could never say precisely at what time he became a Christian. So was he prevented from putting in his work what many men would have set up at its very entrance, a Procrustes' bed for tender consciences in the alleged necessity or importance of knowing the exact day or hour of a man's conversion. Bunyan always shrank from making his experience a test for others. His was one of the purest, humblest, noblest, least bigoted, most truly liberal minds that ever lived. Non-essentials he would never set up as standards. His Book, in its delineation of Christianity, differs from almost all uninspired

records and systems, in that it has neither caricatures, nor extremes, nor marked deficiencies. Some men get a likeness, indeed, of Christian doctrine, but it is by making some feature predominate; you never think of some men's system, but you think of some peculiar tenet that stamps it, that throws the atmosphere, not of the cross, but of a particular dogma, around it. Other men have monstrous excrescences, which are imitated and adored as virtues, and even held sacred as the sign of a party; just as if a great commander, having an enormous wart upon his features, should have it painted on the shield of every one of his soldiers.

And here I am constrained to say, that this figment of the apostolical succession is just such a wart, of which, in the opinion of some, if there be not a true painting and proper veneration in a man's escutcheon, he is no minister of Jesus Christ. Now, if any such party man in theology had had the making of the Pilgrim's Progress, be you sure he would never have suffered a single Evangelist to come in to guide his Christian, not even to pull him out of the Slough of Despond, without first painting him over with this wart of the apostolical succession, or giving him a diploma stating his descent, in a true line, down through the Antichristian church of Rome, clear across the monstrous corruptions of the dark ages, from one of the twelve apostles. Or he would have put up an exclusive church-sign over the wicket gate; and that would have been making it strait and narrow indeed, in a way never contemplated by the Saviour. Yea, he would have let a soul wait there even to perishing, exposed to all the artillery of Satan, before he would have had even a porter to open the door, who was not of the true apostolical succession. And other men would have sprinkled their pages with conversations about the form of baptism, or the sign of the cross, or baptismal regeneration, or the Book of Discipline, or perhaps the Saybrook Platform, or one and another mark of party; letting the work be coloured in its progress, or rather discoloured by a thousand varying shades, through the prism of personal or party prejudice.

There is nothing of all this in Bunyan; in him you do not meet truth in fragments, or in parts put for the whole. You do not meet prejudice instead of truth, nor bigotries, nor reproaches, nor any thing in the sweet fields through which he leads you, that can drive away, or repel any, the humblest, most forgotten Christian, or the wisest, most exalted one, from these lovely enclosures. He is as a familiar friend, an angel from heaven, and not a partisan, walking with you through green pastures, and leading you beside still waters; and conversing with you all the way so lovingly, so instructively, so frankly, that nothing can be more delightful. You have in him more of the ubiquity, unity, and harmony of the divine truth, more of the pervading breath and stamp of inspiration, than in almost any other uninspired writer.

If I should compare Bunyan with other men, I should say that he was a compound of the character of Peter, Luther, and Cowper. He had Peter's temptations, and deep, rich experience; and Luther's Saxon sturdiness, and honesty, and fearlessness of as many devils as there were tiles on the roofs of houses, and not a little of Cowper's own exquisite humour, tenderness, and sensibility. And he had as little of the thirst of human applause as either Luther or Cowper.

As Bunyan's religious experience was not sectarian, but Christian, that it might be universal, so it was thorough and deep, that the colours might stand. In him there was a remarkable translucence of the general in the particular, and of the particular through the general. His book is to the religious sensibilities as the day-light to the flowers; from its rays they may imbibe what lasting colours are most suited to their peculiarities. So it is like the sun of God's word, in which the prism of each individual mind, under the influence of the Divine Spirit, separates the heavenly colours, and puts them in a new aspect, so that every Christian, in the rays of Divine Truth, becomes a new reflection of the Divine Attributes. Bunyan's book has the likeness of this universality, and Christians of every sect may take what they please out of it, except their own sectarianism they cannot find that. In this respect it bears remarkably the divine stamp.

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Bunyan's mind was long under the law, in his own religious experience, under a sense of its condemnation. This alone would never have prepared him to write the Pilgrim's Progress, though it must have prepared him to preach with pungency and power. It fitted him to sympathize with men's distresses on account of sin, wherever he found them. A man's religious anxieties are sometimes so absorbing, that they defeat their own end, they oppose themselves to his deliverance. Just as in a crowded theatre on fire, the doors of which open inward, the very rush of the multitude to get out shuts them so fast, that

there is no unclosing them. Such at one time seemed to be Bunyan's situation; so it often is with the heart that has within it the fire of a guilty conscience; and in this case it is only the Saviour, who knocks for admittance, that can open the door, put out the flames, and change the soul from a theatre of fiery accusing thoughts into a living temple grace. The Pilgrim's Progress would never have been given to the world, except Bunyan had been relieved of his difficulties, but these difficulties were as necessary to furnish him with the experimental wisdom requisite for the author of that book as the relief itself.

of his

There is one book in our language, with which the Pilgrim's Progress may be compared, as a reality with a theory, a personification with an abstraction, and that is Edwards on the Religious Affections. This book is the work of a holy, but rigid metaphysician, analyzing and anatomizing the soul, laying the heart bare, and I had almost said, drying it for a model. As you study it, you know it is truth, and you know that your own heart ought to be like it; but you cannot recognise in it your own flesh and blood. Edwards' delineations are like the skeleton leaves of the forest, through which, if you hold them to the sun, you can see every minute fibre in the light; Bunyan's work is like the same leaves as fresh foliage, green and glossy in the sunshine, joyfully whispering to the breathing air, with now and then the dense rain-drops glittering on them from a June shower. In Edwards' work you see the Divine life in its abstract severity and perfection; in Bunyan's work you see it assuming a visible form, like your own, with your own temptations and trials, touched with the feeling, and coloured with the shade of your own infirmities. Yet both these books are well nigh perfect in their way, both equally adapted to their purpose. We love the work of Bunyan as a bosom friend, a sociable confiding companion on our pilgrimage. We revere the work of Edwards, as a deep, grave teacher, but its stern accuracy makes us tremble. Bunyan encourages, consoles, animates, delights, sympathizes with us; Edwards cross-examines, probes, scrutinizes, alarms us. Bunyan looks on us as a sweet angel, as one of his own shining ones, come to take off our burden, and put on our robe; Edwards, with the rigidity of a geometrican, as a sort of military surveyor of the king's roads, meets us with his map, and shows us how we have wandered from the way, and makes us feel as if we never were in it. Bunyan carries our sensibilities, Edwards our convictions. In short, Bunyan is the Man, the Pilgrim; Edwards the Metaphysician.

Bunyan was as great a master of allegory as Edwards was of logic and metaphysics; but not artificially so, not designedly so, not as a matter of study. He scarcely knew the meaning of the word allegory, much less any rules or principles for its conduct; and the great beauty of his own is that it speaks to the heart; it is the language of nature, and needs no commentator to understand it. It is not like the allegorical friezes of Spenser or of Dante, or like those on a Grecian temple, which may pass into darkness in a single generation, as to all meaning but that of the exquisite beauty of the sculpture, except there be a minute traditionary commentary. Bunyan's Allegory is a universal language. D'Israeli has well designated Bunyan as the Spenser of the people; every one familiar with the Fairy Queen must acknowledge the truth of the description. Johnson thought Bunyan must have read Spenser, and there are some passages in each writer surprisingly similar, especially in each writer's description of Despair. If it were not apparently incongruous, we would call him, on another score, the spiritual Shakspeare of the world; for the accuracy and charm with which he has delineated the changes and progress of the spiritual life, are not less exquisite, than those of Shakspeare in the Seven Ages, and innumerable scenes of this world's existence. He is scarcely less to be praised than Shakspeare for the purity of his language, and the natural simplicity of his style. It comes, as I have said, even nearer to the common diction of good conversation.

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The allegorical image of a Pilgrimage is beautifully adapted to express the dangers and hardships of the Christian Life: a Pilgrimage, with a glorious city at its end, into which the weary but faithful Pilgrim shall be received, to repose for ever from his toils. Every thing connected with the idea is pleasant to the imagination. It has been the origin of many beautiful hymns. Jerusalem! my happy home," is a sweet one. The glories of the Celestial City, and the employments of its inhabitants, are the sources of many images in the Bible, and constitute much of the poetry in the Apocalypse. And these images always had a powerful effect upon the inmost soul of Bunyan. Spenser remembered them not a little. The following beautiful stanzas from the Fairy Queen are a picture in miniature of the close of the Pilgrim's Progress;

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From thence far off he unto him did show
A little path that was both steep and long,
Which to a goodly city led his view,

Whose walls and towers were builded high and strong
Of pearl and precious stones, that earthly tongue
Cannot describe, nor wit of man can tell;

Too high a ditty for my simple song!
The city of the Great King hight it well,
Wherein eternal peace and happiness doth dwell.

As he thereon stood gazing, he might see
The blessed angels to and fro descend
From highest Heaven in gladsome company,
And with great joy into that city wend,
As commonly as friend doth with his friend;
Whereat he wondered much, and 'gan inquire
What stately buildings durst so high extend
Her lofty towers into the starry sphere,

And what unknowen nation there empeopled were.

We know of no other work in which we take a deeper sympathetic interest in all the circumstances of danger, trial, or happiness befalling the hero. The honesty, integrity, open-heartedness, humour, simplicity, and deep sensibility of Christian's character, make us love him: nor is there a character depicted in all English literature that stands out to the mind in bolder truth and originality. There is a wonderful charm and truth to nature in Christian's manifest growth in grace and wisdom. What a different being is Christian on the Delectable Mountains, or in the land Beulah, and Christian when he first set out on his pilgrimage! And yet he is always the same being; we recognise him at once. The change is not of the original features of his character, but a change into the character of the "Lord of the way," a gradual imbuing with his spirit; a change, in Paul's expressive language, from glory to glory into the same image. In proportion as he arrives nearer the Celestial City he shines brighter, his character unfolds in greater richness, he commands more veneration from us, without losing any of our affection. As we witness his steadily increasing lustre, we think of that beautiful Scripture image," the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day." From being an unwary Pilgrim, just setting out with all the rags of the City of Destruction about him, and the burden of guilt bending him down, he becomes that delightful character, an experienced Christian; with the robe given him by the Shining Ones, shining brighter and brighter, and the roll of assurance becoming clearer, and courage more confirmed and steady, and in broader and broader light Heaven reflected from his countenance. We go with him in his pilgrimage all the way. We enter the Interpreter's house; we see all the varieties which the Lord of the Way keeps there for the entertainment of the Pilgrims; we solemnly gaze on that terrible picture of the Man of Despair ; we tremble as we listen to the Dream of the Judgment; and the description of that venturous man that cut his way through the armed men, and won eternal glory, ravishes our hearts. Then we leave the house comforted and refreshed, and proceed on our way; we climb the hill Difficulty, we rest in the Arbour, and lose our roll, and come back weeping and seeking for it; in this much time is lost, and the night comes on, and we are fearful of the darkness. We tremble and weep for Christian in his dreadful fight with Apollyon, in the Valley of Humiliation; we rejoice in the radiant smile that at length breaks out from his distressed soul over his countenance; then we plunge with him into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and amidst all its gloom and horrors and hobgoblins, we think we hear a voice singing; by and by we overtake Faithful; we pass through Vanity Fair; farther on we become tired of the way, and turn aside from the rough path to go in the soft meadow; we are overtaken by the storm; we fall into Giant Despair's Castle; we are there from Wednesday noon till Saturday night; there never was a poem into which we entered so wholly, and with all the heart, and in such fervent love and believing assurance.

Now all this admirable accuracy and beauty Bunyan wrought seemingly without design. It was not so much an exertion, a labour of his mind, as the promptings and wanderings at will of his unconscious genius. He never thought of doing all this, but he did it. He was as a child under the power and guidance of his genius, and with a child's admiration he would look upon the creations which his own imagination presented to his mind. Thus Bunyan went on, painting that narrow way, and the exquisite scenery on each side of it,

and the many characters crossing, appearing, and passing at a distance, and Christian and Hopeful on their way, and making every part of the picture, as he proceeded, harmonize with the whole, and yet add anew to its meaning, and all with as much quiet unconscious ease and simplicity, as an infant would put together a baby-house of cards, or as the frost on a winter's night would draw a picture on the window.

The minute passages of beauty, and the exquisite lessons of the allegory, are so many from beginning to end, that it is vain to make a selection. The whole description of the Slough of Despond, the character of Pliable, and his getting out on the side nearest the City of Destruction, and the reception he met from his neighbours when he came back, are rich in truth and beauty. The comparison of Christian's and Faithful's experience is beautiful; so is Faithful's description of a bold fellow he met in the Valley of Humiliation-Shame; so is their encounter with the plausible, gentlemanly, moneymaking Demas. The character of Talkative, and the way they took to prove him, are excellent. Their passage through Vanity Fair, and the whole trial in that town, with the names of the jurors and judges, and the characteristic speeches of each, are admirably described. The character of By-ends, who was for religion in her silver slippers, and the humour and keen satire in the dialogue between By-ends, Money-love, Save-all, and Hold-the-World, are equally admirable. Then we may remember that pleasant river, and the roughness of the road, where it parted from the river, so that it made them not scrupulous to get over the stile, and walk in By-Path Meadow, when that tempestuous night came on; and though amidst the darkness they heard a voice sounding, Let thy feet be to the King's highway, yet, with all the effort they made, they could not that night regain it, but trespassed on Giant Despair's grounds and fell into his Castle. That night was a dreadful night for the Pilgrims. The Key of Promise, in Christian's bosom, while lying in the Dungeon, is a beautiful incident. It was a pleasant thing to see the Pilgrims, when they had escaped the Giant, and got again to the King's highway, and so were safe, devising an inscription to keep those, that should come after, from falling, as they did, into the hands of Giant Despair. "Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy Pilgrims." On the Delectable Mountains they saw some pleasant and admonitory sights. When the Shepherds unconsciously were telling Hopeful and Christian of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair, Christian and Hopeful looked meaningly on one another, but said nothing. It is also a beautiful incident, when, though they were bidden to look through the telescope at the Celestial City, in the distance, their hands so trembled at the remembrance of the dangers they had seen, that they could not hold the glass so as to discern it with any clearness. The dialogue between Hopeful and Christian on Little-Faith's misfortunes, is exceedingly characteristic and full of humour. One of the most solemn and striking lessons is taught in the character of Ignorance, who met with none of the difficulties Christian passed through, and was even ferried over the river of Death in the boat of one called Self-Conceit. Then his disappointment at the Gate of the City!

on the

The scenery, and the countries all the way that lie on both sides the path, are in perfect keeping with the whole allegory. So are the paths that "butt down king's highway, by which many enter, because the right way is too far round, not entering at the wicket gate, through which Christian, Faithful, and Hopeful entered, after sore difficulties encountered. The characters we meet here and there on the road, that have entered by such lanes and cross paths, are equally in keeping, and as they come successively under Christian's observation, it is amusing to see the manner in which, by turns, their real character is exposed in his honest, plain-dealing, rugged and humorous way. The conversation of Hopeful and Christian all along is truly delightful. It is as becometh saints; grave, sincere, full of good sense and discrimination, with much cheerful pleasantry; exhibiting Hopeful's youthful experience and ardour, and Christian's superior experience, richness of thought, frankness, and kindness. They walk together so lovingly, so sympathizing, so faithful to each other, that all must acknowledge they are a perfect example of the brotherly-kindness becoming the fellow-pilgrims of that way. Between the first and second parts of the Pilgrim's Progress there is a diversity that may be compared to that between the Paradise Lost and the Paradise Regained. Milton's genius, in his second effort, appeared not less than the excess of glory obscured. In the second part of Bunyan's work we readily recognise, and are pleased to follow, the footsteps of that original genius, which has so delighted us in the first. Yet we feel that the