In every nursery the Pilgrim’s Progress is a greater favourite 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 sepulchre,—­the steep hill and the pleasant arbour,—­the stately front of the House Beautiful by the wayside,—­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 rushing 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 and ashes 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 traveller; 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 Britain 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 side, branches off the path leading to that horrible castle, the courtyard of which is paved with the skulls of pilgrims; and right onwards are the sheepfolds and orchards of the Delectable Mountains.