the sorceress, the uncertain poise of the man
struck to the heart by a temptation, the contrast of that even plain of
life whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton--the
artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read Bunyan, he
had also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable Mountains--I continue
skimming the first part--are not on the whole happily rendered. Once,
and once only, the note is struck, when Christian and Hopeful are seen
coming, shoulder-high, through a thicket of green shrubs--box, perhaps,
or perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, the hills stand
ranged against the sky. A little further, and we come to that
masterpiece of Bunyan's insight into life, the Enchanted Ground; where,
in a few traits, he has set down the latter end of such a number of the
would-be good; where his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking
seriously on life, it cuts like satire. The true significance of this
invention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; only one
feature, the great tedium of the land, the growing weariness in
welldoing, may be somewhat represented in a symbol. The pilgrims are
near the end: "Two Miles Yet," says the legend. The road goes ploughing
up and down over a rolling heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms,
are already sunk to the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they
have just passed a milestone with the cipher two; from overhead a great,
piled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, beshadows
them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In dealing with the Land of
Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably behind the text, but in
the distant prospect of the Celestial City more than regains his own.
You will remember when Christian and Hopeful "with desire fell sick."
"Effect of the Sunbeams" is the artist's title. Against the sky, upon a
cliffy mountain, the radiant temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent
woods; they, behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the
splendour--one prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands
ecstatically lifted--yearn with passion after that immortal city. Turn
the page, and we behold them walking by the very shores of death;
Heaven, from this nigher view, has risen half-way to the zenith, and
sheds a wider glory; and the two pilgrims, dark against that brightness,
walk and sing out of the fulness of their hearts. No cut more thoroughly
illustrates at once the merit and the weak