ows us both sides of the wall--"Grace Inextinguishable" on the one
side, with the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and "The Oil
of Grace" on the other, where the Holy Spirit, vessel in hand, still
secretly supplies the fire. He loves, also, to show us the same event
twice over, and to repeat his instantaneous photographs at the interval
of but a moment. So we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims coming
up to Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand and
parleying; and next, the same cross-roads, from a more distant view, the
convoy now scattered and looking safely and curiously on, and Valiant
handing over for inspection his "right Jerusalem blade." It is true that
this designer has no great care after consistency: Apollyon's spear is
laid by, his quiver of darts will disappear, whenever they might hinder
the designer's freedom; and the fiend's tail is blobbed or forked at his
good pleasure. But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of the
fervent Bunyan, breathing hurry and momentary inspiration. He, with
his hot purpose, hunting sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget the
things that he has written yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless in
the Valley of the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his
sleep, as if nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted Ground.
And again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign some of the glory of
the siege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, who
did not meet with the besiegers till long after, at that dangerous
corner by Deadman's Lane. And, with all inconsistencies and freedoms,
there is a power shown in these sequences of cuts: a power of joining on
one action or one humour to another; a power of following out the moods,
even of the dismal subterhuman fiends engendered by the artist's fancy;
a power of sustained continuous realisation, step by step, in nature's
order, that can tell a story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and
surprises, fully and figuratively, like the art of words.

One such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon--six cuts,
weird and fiery, like the text. The pilgrim is throughout a pale and
stockish figure; but the devil covers a multitude of defects. There is
no better devil of the conventional order than our artist's Apollyon,
with his mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and terrifying
expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut the first you see him
afar off,