Why should readers complain of being refused the
future history of one life, when they are in most novels cut short
by the marriage finale from the biography of two?

But if, over and above this, any reader should be wroth at my having
left Lancelot's history unfinished on questions in his opinion more
important than that of love, let me entreat him to set manfully
about finishing his own history--a far more important one to him
than Lancelot's. If he shall complain that doubts are raised for
which no solution is given, that my hero is brought into
contradictory beliefs without present means of bringing them to
accord, into passive acquiescence in vast truths without seeing any
possibility of practically applying them--let him consider well
whether such be not his own case; let him, if he be as most are,
thank God when he finds out that such is his case, when he knows at
last that those are most blind who say they see, when he becomes at
last conscious how little he believes, how little he acts up to that
small belief. Let him try to right somewhat of the doubt,
confusion, custom-worship, inconsistency, idolatry, within him--some
of the greed, bigotry, recklessness, respectably superstitious
atheism around him; and perhaps before his new task is finished,
Lancelot and Tregarva may have returned with a message, if not for
him--for that depends upon him having ears to hear it--yet possibly
for strong Lord Minchampstead, probably for good Lord Vieuxbois, and
surely for the sinners and the slaves of Whitford Priors. What it
will be, I know not altogether; but this I know, that if my heroes
go on as they have set forth, looking with single mind for some one
ground of human light and love, some everlasting rock whereon to
build, utterly careless what the building may be, howsoever contrary
to precedent and prejudice, and the idols of the day, provided God,
and nature, and the accumulated lessons of all the ages, help them
in its construction--then they will find in time the thing they
seek, and see how the will of God may at last be done on earth, even
as it is done in heaven. But, alas! between them and it are waste
raging waters, foul mud banks, thick with dragons and sirens; and
many a bitter day and blinding night, in cold and hunger, spiritual
and perhaps physical, await them. For it was a true vision which
John Bunyan saw, and one which, as the visions of wise men are wont
to