Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1889-06-02
A WONDROUS STORY.
Mrs Lew Wallace Tells Of Happy
Hours With Her FavOrite Book.
THE HERO OF HER CHILDHOOD.
Youthful Impressions of Bunyans Great
Work Still Retained.
PAGES THAT APPEAL TO THE FANCY
WRITTEN FOR THE DrspArcH.,

when L was about years of age that
nassed from Cinderella to Bunyan's
matchless work without suspecting that it
was not child's book. And, possessed of
the precious volume-new books were rare
in those days-I climbed tall secretary, :"
to escape the younger children, who were
too small to scale the back of a chair and
follow me. We were noisy set-uine in
all-and, secured in comparative quiet, on
my high perch 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 per-
sonal recollections.
The narrow path, straight as rule could
make it, was plain to my eyes as the foot
paths which stresked my fathers orchard,
under the apple trees. I hung entranced
over every step in .the marvellous journey,
and saw clearly, as 1 see this pen and paper
the very stately palace, the name of which
was Beautiful, and it stood by the highway
side. How my young heart rejoiced when
Christian found the lions guarding 1t were
chainedl
A PRINoELY HERO.
As he dropped his load into sepulcher
and gave three leaps for joy, my soul
leaped too, only to sink again when he fell
into the clutches of Giant Despair and was
beaten with the grievous erab-tree cudgel in
the awful courtyard paved with skulls of
Pilgrims. How foolish of him to forget the
key Promise, which would open any lock in
Doubling Castle, and how I:longed to twist
b. L. - 6o% 7lo44 9Th
his neti
Delicious to imagination were the good
things the travellers had to eat by the way.
The raisins and pomegranates, the cordials,
wine red as blood and those wonderful
grapes that 60 down SO sweetly as to cause
the lips of them that are asleep to speak.
The feasts almost made up for the fights
with scRly dragons and terrific shapes coming
out the burning pit, terrors that made
hideous the road through the Dark Valley,
and satisfied my juvenile love of the myste-
rious 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 orchards
and vineyards of the Delectable Mountains
(then had never seen a mountain), and
the loving shepherds at Beulah who strewed
flowers before the feet of the pilgrims bound
Tor the city OF their Prince.
CHILDISH PERPLExITIEs.
Here and there had to spell out hard
words, many things were puzzling, but the
very wonderments added to the charm of the
story. What was a quagmire, what was a
muck-rake, what were stocks, a civet-box;
how could one grasshopper burden man,
and what sort of shoes were they which
never wear out, and how could the Shining
Ones dress in gold clothes7
I 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, the 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 |
e1ultant feeling one has in cathedrals re-
sounding with some mighty anthem.
It was winter time, and the pleasantet for |
deep SHOWS without were thoughts of warm
palace rooms, the delicate plain ease, the |
shady arbor and the meadow curiously beau |
titled with lilies, green all the wear long,
At sunset 1 looked through glistening
towers on frosty window-panes, as many |
years afterward 1 watched the domes and |
spires of old Stamboul floating in silvery |
mists of the Bosphorus, and recalled the |
tremulous glimmer In the shepherds per-
spective glass.
GREATHEART, THE WARRIOR.
On top of high hill called Clear thev
could not look steadily, vet thev Thought |
they saw something 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 thessking-an undimmed' splendor. |
When went to bed that night, lovely |
shapes, walking, floating, flying, went with
me, ana angel-eyes watched over my sleep.
The supreme delight of the book was Great
heart, 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 if they were chained or
not That warrior-image has not changed in
the waste of years, nor can it change. He
lives while realities have died. Iloyed him
then, love him yet.
Familiarity has not dulled the charm of
the wondrous tale, and still does the mystic
touch of memory sound the ancient strings.
In hall century of pilgrimage 1 have re-
peatedly met the very brisk lad named
Ignorance, who came from the country OF
Conceit, have caught glimpses on several
continents, of Madame Bubble selling her
vanlties, tall, comely dame, with some
thing OF swarthy complexion And. in
strange lands, while under the friendly roof
of our missionaries, bethought me of the
large upper room where the Pilgrims slept
and Mercy dreamed her glorious dream, Its
window opened toward tle sun-rising; the
name of the chamber was Peace.
sHAKEsPEARE AND BUNYAN.
From Bunyan, the change to 'The
Arabian Nights" was easy; thence turned
to Shakespeare, where 1 remain unto this
day. No shrine outside of Palestine moved
me like the poor little house where he spent
ms ooyhood, unconscious that he was to en-
rich the human race with its greatest liter
ary inheritance.
As write the name, there rises before me |
IN Ine cool, gray day we spent at Stratford.
Lhe waters OF Avon 60 softly past the old /
town, which Is specklessly clean and bow
ereo IN vines and ereepers- On the Lucy
estate, hard by, is the Shakespeare stile,
made In the ancient fashion SO the upner
bar drops and catches the feet of the poacber
on the deer park. We regis
tered our names in the book, always open.
where, every year, II, 900 are written. mainly
BY visitors from the dear land we love TO
,al our own Two quaint women keen the
place, and tell their story with a freshness
which cheers the tired traveller. Again. I
ouch the ceiling of the room, where 'sthe
oremost man of all this world' was born.
md mark the low doorwsys, the cramped
md crooked stairs leading to the loft in
which he used to sleep among the rolls of
gool.
There was the chimney seat where the lad
must have warmed his feet and watched the
mbers Of the hearth turn to phantoms dim
nd gray. Immortal beings were all about
is. They filled the air, peopled the spaces
~ srsp ]