The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-06-05
MRS. GEN. LEW WALLACE
RECALLS cHILDHooo's HAPPY HOURS
Youthful Impressions of "Pilgrim's Prog
ress,-The Charm of the Wondrous Tale
Not Notwithstanding Up on ''Shak-
spesre"-At stratford-on-Ayon.

| out hesitation, "Pigrim's Progress" 1t
was when was about seven years of age
| that | passed from cinderella" to Bun
vans matchless work without suspecting
that it was not a child's book. And, pos
sessed OF the precious volume-new books
were rare in those days--I climbed tall
secretary" to escape the younger chill
dren, who were too small to scale the back
of chair and follow me. We were
noisy set-nine in all-and, secured in
comparative quiet on my high perch, l
| dreamed dreams and saw visions such as
no fairy tale ever unveiled to me. Types
and shadows there were none. The actors
of the drama were not creatures OF
fiction, they were positive substance,
my familiars, and now are placed with my
personal recollections.
The narrow path, straight as rule could
make it, was plain to my eyes as the foot
paths which streaked my fathers orchard,
under the apple trees. hung entranced
/ over every step in the marvellous journey,
and saw clearly, as l see this pen and
paper, the very stately palace, the name Of
highway side How my young heart re-
] loiced when Christian found the lions
4 guarding it ere chained! AS he dropped
his load into sepulcher and gave three
leaps for ioy, my soul leaped too, only to
sink again when he fell into the clutches
of Giant Despair and was beaten with the
/ grievous crab-tree cudgel in the awful
/ courtyard paved with skulls OF pilgrims.
4 How foolish of him to forget the kew
! promise, which would open any lock in
4 Doubling Castle, and how longed to twist
my hands in the hair of that flatterer with
! his net!
Delicious to imagination were the good
things the travellers had to eat by the way.
4 The raisins and pomegranates, the cor
4 dials. wine red as blood, and those won
derful grapes that 20 down so sweetly as
to cause the lips of them that are asleep
to speak. The feasts almost made up for
the fights with scaly dragons and terrific
shapes coming out of the burning pit, ter
rors that made hideous the road through
the dark valley and satisfied my juvenile
4 love of the mysterious and horrible.
Sweet to childish fancy were the rarities
and fair shows OF the Interpreters house;
the letter of the king which smelt after
the manner of the best perfumes; the or
chards and VINEYARDS of the Delectabie
mountains then | had never seen
mountain), and believing shephel is at
Beulah who strewed flowers before the
pilgrims bound for the city of their
prince.
Here and there had to spell out hard
words, many things we're pulling, but
the very wonderments added to the
charm of the story. What was a quag-
mire, what was a muck-rake, what were
stocks, civet-box; how could one grass
hopper burden man, and what sort OF
shoes were they which never wear out,
and how could the shining ones dress in
gold clothes2
/ shivered at the passage through the
cold black river, forever flowing; the river
that has no bridge, but, oh, the rapture
in the triumph beyond The ringing
bells, the melOdious noises, the singers
and harpers with their harps; above all,
that One who sat on the great white
throne with the rainbow round His head.
Those pages thrilled me like an outburst
of triumphant music, the exultant feeling
one has in cathedrals resounding with
some mighty anthem.
1t was winter time, and the pleasanter
for deep SHOWS without werc thoughts of
warm palace rooms, the delicate plain
ease, the shady arbor and the meadow
! curiously beautitied with lilies, green all
the year long. At sunset looked through
glistening towers on frosty window-panes,
as many years afterward | watched the
domes and spires of old Stamboul floating
in silvery mists of the Bosphorus, and re-
called the tremulous glimmer in the shep-
herds prospective glass. On the top of a
high hill called Clear they could not look
steadily, yet they thought they saw some
thing like the gate of the Celestial City,
and also some OF the glory of the place.
Nothing was faint or vaporouS Near at
hand, not high and distant, was the City
of the King-an undimmed splendor.
When l went to bed that night lovely
shapes, walking, floating, flying, went
with me, and angel eyes watched over my
sleep. The supreme de light OF the book
was Greatheart, my hero in bright armor
and helmet with plumes; the giant-killer,
the lover of women and children. who
marched up to the lions, not minding il
they were chained or not. The warrior
image has not changed in the waste of
years, nor can it change. He lives while
realities have died. loved him then; /
love him yet.
Familiarity has not duled the charm of
the wondrous tale, and still does the mys-
tic touch of memory sound the ancient
strings. In half century OF pilgrimage |
have repeatedly met the very brisk lad
named Ignorance, who came from the
country of Conceit, have caught glimpses,
on several continents, of Nine. Bubble
selling her vanities, tall comelv dame,
with something OF a swarthy complexion.
And, in strange lands, while under the
friendly roof OF our missionaries, be-
thought me of the large upper room where
the Pilgrims slept and Mercy dreamed her
glorious dream. Its window opened to-
ward the sun-rising. the name of the
chamber was Peace.
From Bunyon, the change to 'The
Arabian Nights" was easy; thence l
turned TO Shakespeare, where l remain
unto this day. No shrine outside of Paes-
tine moved me like the poor little house
where he spent his boyhood, unconscious
that he was TO enrich the human race
with its greatest literary inheritance.
AS write the name, there rises before
me the cool, gray day we spent at STRAIT
ford. The waters of avon go softly past
the old town, which is. specklessly clean
and powered In vines and creepers. On the
Lucy estate, hard by, is the Shakespeare
stile, made in the ancient fashion,
so the upper bar drops and catches the
feet of the poacher trespassing over the
deer park. We registered our names in
the book, always open, where, every year.
twelve thousand are written, mainly by
visitors from the dear land we love to call
our own. Two quaint women keep the
rlaca and foil thair story With a froSbo