 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD.
Not a great while ago, passing through the gate of dreams, I
visited that region of the earth in which lies the famous city of
Destruction. It interested me much to learn that, by the public
spirit of some of the inhabitants, a railroad has recently been
established between this populous and flourishing town, and the
Celestial City. Having a little time upon my hands, I resolved
to gratify a liberal curiosity to make a trip thither. Accordingly,
one fine morning, after paying my bill at the hotel, and directing
the porter to stow my luggage behind a coach, I took my seat in
the vehicle and set out for the Station-house. It was my good
fortune to enjoy the company of a gentleman—one Mr. Smooth-it-away—who,
though he had never actually visited the Celestial
City, yet seemed as well acquainted with its laws, customs, policy,
and statistics, as with those of the city of Destruction, of
which he was a native townsman. Being, moreover, a director
of the railroad corporation, and one of its largest stockholders, he
had it in his power to give me all desirable information respecting
that praiseworthy enterprise.
Our coach rattled out of the city, and, at a short distance from
its outskirts, passed over a bridge, of elegant construction, but
somewhat too slight, as I imagined, to sustain any considerable
weight. On both sides lay an extensive quagmire, which could
not have been more disagreeable either to sight or smell, had all
the kennels of the earth emptied their pollution there.
“This,” remarked Mr. Smooth-it-away, “is the famous Slough
of Despond—a disgrace to all the neighborhood; and the greater,
that it might so easily be converted into firm ground.”
“I have understood,” said I, “that efforts have been made for
that purpose, from time immemorial. Bunyan mentions that
above twenty thousand cart-loads of wholesome instructions had
been thrown in here, without effect.”
“Very probably!—and what effect could be anticipated from
such unsubstantial stuff?” cried Mr. Smooth-it-away. “You
observe this convenient bridge. We obtained a sufficient foundation
for it by throwing into the Slough some editions of books of
morality, volumes of French philosophy and German rationalism,
tracts, sermons, and essays of modern clergymen, extracts from
Plato, Confucius, and various Hindoo sages, together with a few
ingenious commentaries upon texts of Scripture—all of which, by
some scientific process, have been converted into a mass like
granite. The whole bog might be filled up with similar matter.”
It really seemed to me, however, that the bridge vibrated and
heaved up and down in a very formidable manner; and, spite
of Mr. Smooth-it-away's testimony to the solidity of its foundation,
I should be loth to cross it in a crowded omnibus; especially,
if each passenger were encumbered with as heavy luggage as
that gentleman and myself. Nevertheless, we got over without
accident, and soon found ourselves at the Station-house. This
very neat and spacious edifice is erected on the site of the little
Wicket-Gate, which formerly, as all old pilgrims will recollect,
stood directly across the highway, and, by its inconvenient narrowness,
was a great obstruction to the traveller of liberal mind
and expansive stomach. The reader of John Bunyan will be
glad to know, that Christian's old friend Evangelist, who was
accustomed to supply each pilgrim with a mystic roll, now presides
at the ticket office. Some malicious persons, it is true, deny
the identity of this reputable character with the Evangelist of
imposture. Without involving myself in a dispute, I shall merely
observe, that, so far as my experience goes, the square pieces
of pasteboard, now delivered to passengers, are much more convenient
and useful along the road, than the antique roll of parchment.
Whether they will be as readily received at the gate of
the Celestial City, I decline giving an opinion.
A large number of passengers were already at the Station-house,
awaiting the departure of the cars. By the aspect and
demeanor of these persons, it was easy to judge that the feelings
of the community had undergone a very favorable change,
in reference to the celestial pilgrimage. It would have done
Bunyan's heart good to see it. Instead of a lonely and ragged
man, with a huge burthen on his back, plodding along sorrowfully
on foot, while the whole city hooted after him, here were parties
of the first gentry and most respectable people in the neighborhood,
setting forth towards the Celestial City, as cheerfully as if
the pilgrimage were merely a summer tour. Among the gentlemen
were characters of deserved eminence, magistrates, politicians,
and men of wealth, by whose example religion could not
but be greatly recommended to their meaner brethren. In the
ladies' apartment, too, I rejoiced to distinguish some of those
flowers of fashionable society, who are so well fitted to adorn the
most elevated circles of the Celestial City. There was much
pleasant conversation about the news of the day, topics of business,
politics, or the lighter matters of amusement; while religion,
though indubitably the main thing at heart, was thrown
tastefully into the back-ground. Even an infidel would have
heard little or nothing to shock his sensibility.
One great convenience of the new method of going on pilgrimage,
I must not forget to mention. Our enormous burthens, instead
of being carried on our shoulders, as had been the custom
of old, were all snugly deposited in the baggage-car, and, as I
journey's end. Another thing, likewise, the benevolent reader
will be delighted to understand. It may be remembered that
there was an ancient feud between Prince Beelzebub and the
keeper of the Wicket-Gate, and that the adherents of the former
distinguished personage were accustomed to shoot deadly arrows
at honest pilgrims, while knocking at the door. This dispute,
much to the credit as well of the illustrious potentate above-mentioned,
as of the worthy and enlightened Directors of the railroad,
has been pacifically arranged, on the principle of mutual
compromise. The Prince's subjects are now pretty numerously
employed about the Station house, some in taking care of the baggage,
others in collecting fuel, feeding the engines, and such congenial
occupations; and I can conscientiously affirm, that persons
more attentive to their business, more willing to accommodate, or
more generally agreeable to the passengers, are not to be found
on any railroad. Every good heart must surely exult at so satisfactory
an arrangement of an immemorial difficulty.
“Where is Mr. Great-heart?” inquired I. “Beyond a doubt,
the Directors have engaged that famous old champion to be chief
conductor on the railroad?”
“Why, no,” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, with a dry cough.
“He was offered the situation of brake-man; but, to tell you the
truth, our friend Great-heart has grown preposterously stiff and
narrow in his old age. He has so often guided pilgrims over the
road, on foot, that he considers it a sin to travel in any other
fashion. Besides, the old fellow had entered so heartily into the
ancient feud with Prince Beelzebub, that he would have been
perpetually at blows or ill language with some of the prince's
subjects, and thus have embroiled us anew. So, on the whole,
we were not sorry when honest Great-heart went off to the Celestial
City in a huff, and left us at liberty to choose a more suitable
the train. You will probably recognize him at once.”
The engine at this moment took its station in advance of the
cars, looking, I must confess, much more like a sort of mechanical
demon that would hurry us to the infernal regions, than a
laudable contrivance for smoothing our way to the Celestial City.
On its top sat a personage almost enveloped in smoke and flame,
which—not to startle the reader—appeared to gush from his own
mouth and stomach, as well as from the engine's brazen abdomen.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried I. “What on earth is this!
A living creature?—if so, he is own brother to the engine he
rides upon!”
“Poh, poh, you are obtuse!” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, with a
hearty laugh. “Don't you know Apollyon, Christian's old
enemy, with whom he fought so fierce a battle in the Valley of
Humiliation? He was the very fellow to manage the engine;
and so we have reconciled him to the custom of going on prilgrimage,
and engaged him as chief conductor.”
“Bravo, bravo!” exclaimed I, with irrepressible enthusiasm,
“this shows the liberality of the age; this proves, if anything
can, that all musty prejudices are in a fair way to be obliterated.
And how will Christian rejoice to hear of this happy transformation
of his old antagonist! I promise myself great pleasure in
informing him of it, when we reach the Celestial City.”
The passengers being all comfortably seated, we now rattled
away merrily, accomplishing a greater distance in ten minutes
than Christian probably trudged over in a day. It was laughable
while we glanced along, as it were, at the tail of a thunderbolt, to
observe two dusty foot-travellers, in the old pilgrim-guise, with
cockle-shell and staff, their mystic rolls of parchment in their
hands, and their intolerable burthens on their backs. The preposterous
obstinacy of these honest people, in persisting to groan
and stumble along the difficult pathway, rather than take advantage
wiser brotherhood. We greeted the two pilgrims with many
pleasant gibes and a roar of laughter; whereupon, they gazed at
us with such woeful and absurdly compassionate visages, that our
merriment grew tenfold more obstreperous. Apollyon, also,
entered heartily into the fun, and contrived to flirt the smoke and
flame of the engine, or of his own breath, into their faces, and
envelope them in an atmosphere of scalding steam. These little
practical jokes amused us mightily, and doubtless afforded the
pilgrims the gratification of considering themselves martyrs.
At some distance from the railroad, Mr. Smooth-it-away pointed
to a large, antique edifice, which, he observed, was a tavern of
long standing, and had formerly been a noted stopping-place for
pilgrims. In Bunyan's road-book it is mentioned as the Interpreter's
House.
“I have long had a curiosity to visit that old mansion,” remarked
I.
“It is not one of our stations, as you perceive,” said my companion.
“The keeper was violently opposed to the railroad; and
well he might be, as the track left his house of entertainment on one
side, and thus was pretty certain to deprive him of all his reputable
customers. But the foot-path still passes his door; and the
old gentleman now and then receives a call from some simple
traveller, and entertains him with fare as old-fashioned as himself.”
Before our talk on this subject came to a conclusion, we were
rushing by the place where Christian's burthen fell from his
shoulders, at the sight of the Cross. This served as a theme for
Mr. Smooth-it-away, Mr. Live-for-the-world, Mr. Hide-sin-in-the-heart,
Mr. Scaly-conscience, and a knot of gentlemen from the
town of Shun-repentance, to descant upon the inestimable advantages
resulting from the safety of our baggage. Myself, and all
the passengers indeed, joined with great unanimity in this view
precious throughout the world; and especially, we each of us
possessed a great variety of favorite Habits, which we trusted
would not be out of fashion, even in the polite circles of the
Celestial City. It would have been a sad spectacle to see such
an assortment of valuable articles tumbling into the sepulchre.
Thus pleasantly conversing on the favorable circumstances of our
position, as compared with those of past pilgrims, and of narrow-minded
ones at the present day, we soon found ourselves at the
foot of the Hill Difficulty. Through the very heart of this rocky
mountain a tunnel has been constructed, of most admirable architecture,
with a lofty arch and a spacious double-track; so that,
unless the earth and rocks should chance to crumble down, it will
remain an eternal monument of the builder's skill and enterprise.
It is a great though incidental advantage, that the materials from
the heart of the Hill Difficulty have been employed in filling up
the Valley of Humiliation; thus obviating the necessity of
descending into that disagreeable and unwholesome hollow.
“This is a wonderful improvement, indeed,” said I. “Yet I
should have been glad of an opportunity to visit the Palace Beautiful,
and be introduced to the charming young ladies—Miss
Prudence, Miss Piety, Miss Charity, and the rest—who have the
kindness to entertain pilgrims there.”
“Young ladies!” cried Mr. Smooth-it-away, as soon as he
could speak for laughing. “And charming young ladies!
Why, my dear fellow, they are old maids, every soul of them—
prim, starched, dry, and angular—and not one of them, I will
venture to say, has altered so much as the fashion of her gown,
since the days of Christian's pilgrimage.”
“Ah, well,” said I, much comforted, “then I can very readily
dispense with their acquaintance.”
The respectable Apollyon was now putting on the steam at a
prodigious rate; anxious, perhaps, to get rid of the unpleasant
encountered Christian. Consulting Mr. Bunyan's road-book,
I perceived that we must now be within a few miles of the
Valley of the Shadow of Death; into which doleful region, at our
present speed, we should plunge much sooner than seemed at all
desirable. In truth, I expected nothing better than to find myself
in the ditch on one side, or the quag on the other. But on communicating
my apprehensions to Mr. Smooth-it-away, he assured
me that the difficulties of this passage, even in its worst condition,
had been vastly exaggerated, and that, in its present state of improvement,
I might consider myself as safe as on any railroad in
Christendom.
Even while we were speaking, the train shot into the entrance
of this dreaded Valley. Though I plead guilty to some foolish
palpitations of the heart, during our headlong rush over the cause-way
here constructed, yet it were unjust to withhold the highest
encomiums on the boldness of its original conception, and the
ingenuity of those who executed it. It was gratifying, likewise,
to observe how much care had been taken to dispel the everlasting
gloom, and supply the defect of cheerful sunshine; not a ray
of which has ever penetrated among these awful shadows. For
this purpose, the inflammable gas, which exudes plentifully from
the soil, is collected by means of pipes, and thence communicated
to a quadruple row of lamps, along the whole extent of the passage.
Thus a radiance has been created, even out of the fiery
and sulphurous curse that rests for ever upon the Valley; a
radiance hurtful, however, to the eyes, and somewhat bewildering,
as I discovered by the changes which it wrought in the
visages of my companions. In this respect, as compared with
natural daylight, there is the same difference as between truth
and falsehood; but if the reader have ever travelled through the
dark Valley, he will have learned to be thankful for any light
that he could get; if not from the sky above, then from the blasted
they appeared to build walls of fire on both sides of the track,
between which we held our course at lightning speed, while a
reverberating thunder filled the Valley with its echoes. Had the
engine run off the track—a catastrophe, it is whispered, by no
means unprecedented—the bottomless pit, if there be any such
place, would undoubtedly have received us. Just as some dismal
fooleries of this nature had made my heart quake, there came a
tremendous shriek, careering along the Valley as if a thousand
devils had burst their lungs to utter it, but which proved to be
merely the whistle of the engine, on arriving at a stopping-place.
The spot, where we had now paused, is the same that our friend
Bunyan—truthful man, but infected with many fantastic notions
—has designated, in terms plainer than I like to repeat, as the
mouth of the infernal region. This, however, must be a mistake;
inasmuch as Mr. Smooth-it-away, while we remained in the
smoky and lurid cavern, took occasion to prove that Tophet has
not even a metaphorical existence. The place, he assured us, is
no other than the crater of a half-extinct volcano, in which the
Directors had caused forges to be set up, for the manufacture of
railroad iron. Hence, also, is obtained a plentiful supply of fuel
for the use of the engines. Whoever had gazed into the dismal
obscurity of the broad cavern-mouth, whence ever and anon darted
huge tongues of dusky flame,—and had seen the strange, half-shaped
monsters, and visions of faces horribly grotesque, into
which the smoke seemed to wreathe itself,—and had heard the
awful murmurs, and shrieks, and deep shuddering whispers of
the blast, sometimes forming themselves into words almost articulate,—would
have seized upon Mr. Smooth-it-away's comfortable
explanation, as greedily as we did. The inhabitants of the cavern,
moreover, were unlovely personages, dark, smoke-begrimed, generally
deformed, with mis-shapen feet, and a glow of dusky redness
blazing out of the upper windows. It struck me as a peculiarity,
that the laborers at the forge, and those who brought fuel to the
engine, when they began to draw short breath, positively emitted
smoke from their mouth and nostrils.
Among the idlers about the train, most of whom were puffing
cigars which they had lighted at the flame of the crater, I was
perplexed to notice several who, to my certain knowledge, had
heretofore set forth by railroad for the Celestial City. They
looked dark, wild, and smoky, with a singular resemblance,
indeed, to the native inhabitants; like whom, also, they had a
disagreeable propensity to ill-natured gibes and sneers, the habit
of which had wrought a settled contortion of their visages.
Having been on speaking terms with one of these persons—an
indolent, good-for-nothing fellow, who went by the name of
Take-it-easy—I called him, and inquired what was his business
there.
“Did you not start,” said I, “for the Celestial City?”
“That's a fact,” said Mr. Take-it-easy, carelessly puffing some
smoke into my eyes. “But I heard such bad accounts, that I
never took pains to climb the hill, on which the city stands. No
business doing—no fun going on—nothing to drink, and no
smoking allowed—and a thrumming of church-music from morning
till night! I would not stay in such a place, if they offered
me house-room and living free.”
“But, my good Mr. Take-it-easy,” cried I, “why take up your
residence here, of all places in the world?”
“Oh,” said the loafer, with a grin, “it is very warm hereabouts,
and I meet with plenty of old acquaintances, and altogether the
place suits me. I hope to see you back again, some day soon.
A pleasant journey to you!”
While he was speaking, the bell of the engine rang, and we
dashed away, after dropping a few passengers, but receiving no
dazzled with the fiercely gleaming gas-lamps, as before. But
sometimes, in the dark of intense brightness, grim faces, that
bore the aspect and expression of individual sins, or evil passions,
seemed to thrust themselves through the veil of light, glaring upon
us, and stretching forth a great dusky hand, as if to impede our
progress. I almost thought, that they were my own sins that
appalled me there. These were freaks of imagination—nothing
more, certainly,—mere delusions, which I ought to be heartily
ashamed of—but, all through the Dark Valley, I was tormented,
and pestered, and dolefully bewildered, with the same kind of
waking dreams. The mephitic gases of that region intoxicate the
brain. As the light of natural day, however, began to struggle
with the glow of the lanterns, these vain imaginations lost their
vividness, and finally vanished with the first ray of sunshine that
greeted our escape from the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Ere we had gone a mile beyond it, I could well nigh have taken
my oath, that this whole gloomy passage was a dream.
At the end of the Valley, as John Bunyan mentions, is a cavern,
where, in his days, dwelt two cruel giants, Pope and Pagan, who
had strewn the ground about their residence with the bones of
slaughtered pilgrims. These vile old troglodytes are no longer
there; but in their deserted cave another terrible giant has thrust
himself, and makes it his business to seize upon honest travellers,
and fat them for his table with plentiful meals of smoke, mist,
moonshine, raw potatoes, and saw-dust. He is a German by
birth, and is called Giant Transcendentalist; but as to his form,
his features, his substance, and his nature generally, it is the
chief peculiarity of this huge miscreant, that neither he for himself,
nor anybody for him, has ever been able to describe them.
As we rushed by the cavern's mouth, we caught a hasty glimpse
of him, looking somewhat like an ill-proportioned figure, but considerably
more like a heap of fog and duskiness. He shouted
he meant, nor whether to be encouraged or affrighted.
It was late in the day, when the train thundered into the
ancient city of Vanity, where Vanity Fair is still at the height
of prosperity, and exhibits an epitome of whatever is brilliant,
gay, and fascinating, beneath the sun. As I purposed to make a
considerable stay here, it gratified me to learn that there is no
longer the want of harmony between the townspeople and
pilgrims, which impelled the former to such lamentably mistaken
measures as the persecution of Christian, and the fiery martyrdom
of Faithful. On the contrary, as the new railroad brings with it
great trade and a constant influx of strangers, the lord of Vanity
Fair is its chief patron, and the capitalists of the city are among
the largest stockholders. Many passengers stop to take their
pleasure or make their profit in the Fair, instead of going onward
to the Celestial City. Indeed, such are the charms of the place,
that people often affirm it to be the true and only heaven; stoutly
contending that there is no other, that those who seek further are
mere dreamers, and that, if the fabled brightness of the Celestial
City lay but a bare mile beyond the gates of Vanity, they would
not be fools enough to go thither. Without subscribing to these,
perhaps, exaggerated encomiums, I can truly say, that my abode
in the city was mainly agreeable, and my intercourse with the
inhabitants productive of much amusement and instruction.
Being naturally of a serious turn, my attention was directed to
the solid advantages derivable from a residence here, rather than
to the effervescent pleasures, which are the grand object with too
many visitants. The Christian reader, if he have had no accounts
of the city later than Bunyan's time, will be surprised to
hear that almost every street has its church, and that the reverend
clergy are nowhere held in higher respect than at Vanity Fair.
And well do they deserve such honorable estimation; for the
maxims of wisdom and virtue which fall from their lips, come
aim, as those of the sagest philosophers of old. In justification of
this high praise, I need only mention the names of the Rev. Mr.
Shallow-deep; the Rev. Mr. Stumble-at-Truth; that fine old
clerical character, the Rev. Mr. This-to-day, who expects shortly
to resign his pulpit to the Rev. Mr. That-to-morrow; together
with the Rev. Mr. Bewilderment; the Rev. Mr. Clog-the-spirit;
and, last and greatest, the Rev. Dr. Wind-of-doctrine. The
labors of these eminent divines are aided by those of innumerable
lecturers, who diffuse such a various profundity, in all subjects
of human or celestial science, that any man may acquire an
omnigenous erudition, without the trouble of even learning to read.
Thus literature is etherealized by assuming for its medium the
human voice; and knowledge, depositing all its heavier particles—except,
doubtless, its gold—becomes exhaled into a sound,
which forthwith steals into the ever-open ear of the community.
These ingenious methods constitute a sort of machinery, by which
thought and study are done to every person's hand, without his
putting himself to the slightest inconvenience in the matter.
There is another species of machine for the wholesale manufacture
of individual morality. This excellent result is effected by
societies for all manner of virtuous purposes; with which a man
has merely to connect himself, throwing, as it were, his quota of
virtue into the common stock; and the president and directors
will take care that the aggregate amount be well applied. All
these, and other wonderful improvements in ethics, religion, and
literature, being made plain to my comprehension, by the ingenious
Mr. Smooth-it-away, inspired me with a vast admiration of Vanity
Fair.
It would fill a volume, in an age of pamphlets, were I to record
all my observations in this great capital of human business and
pleasure. There was an unlimited range of society—the powerful,
the wise, the witty, and the famous in every walk of life—
all making their own market at the Fair, and deeming
no price too exorbitant for such commodities as hit their faney.
It was well worth one's while, even if he had no idea of buying
or selling, to loiter through the bazaars, and observe the various
sorts of traffic that were going forward.
Some of the purchasers, I thought, made very foolish bargains.
For instance, a young man having inherited a splendid fortune,
laid out a considerable portion of it in the purchase of diseases,
and finally spent all the rest for a heavy lot of repentance and a
suit of rags. A very pretty girl bartered a heart as clear as
crystal, and which seemed her most valuable possession, for another
jewel of the same kind, but so worn and defaced as to be utterly
worthless. In one shop, there were a great many crowns of laurel
and myrtle, which soldiers, authors, statesmen, and various other
people, pressed eagerly to buy; some purchased these paltry
wreaths with their lives; others by a toilsome servitude of years;
and many sacrificed whatever was most valuable, yet finally slunk
away without the crown. There was a sort of stock or scrip,
called Conscience, which seemed to be in great demand, and
would purchase almost anything. Indeed, few rich commodities
were to be obtained without paying a heavy sum in this particular
stock, and a man's business was seldom very lucrative, unless he
knew precisely when and how to throw his hoard of Conscience
into the market. Yet as this stock was the only thing of permanent
value, whoever parted with it was sure to find himself a
loser, in the long run. Several of the speculations were of a
questionable character. Occasionally, a member of Congress
recruited his pocket by the sale of his constituents; and I was
assured that public officers have often sold their country at very
moderate prices. Thousands sold their happiness for a whim.
Gilded chains were in great demand, and purchased with almost
any sacrifice. In truth, those who desired, according to the old
all over the Fair; and there were innumerable messes of pottage,
piping hot, for such as chose to buy them with their birth-rights.
A few articles, however, could not be found genuine at
Vanity Fair. If a customer wished to renew his stock of youth,
the dealers offered him a set of false teeth and an auburn wig; if
he demanded peace of mind, they recommended opium or a
brandy-bottle.
Tracts of land and golden mansions, situate in the Celestial
City, were often exchanged, at very disadvantageous rates, for a
few years' lease of small, dismal, inconvenient tenements in
Vanity Fair. Prince Beelzebub himself took great interest in
this sort of traffic, and sometimes condescended to meddle with
smaller matters. I once had the pleasure to see him bargaining
with a miser for his soul, which, after much ingenious skirmishing
on both sides, his Highness succeeded in obtaining at about
the value of sixpence. The prince remarked, with a smile, that
he was a loser by the transaction.
Day after day, as I walked the streets of Vanity, my manners
and deportment became more and more like those of the inhabitants.
The place began to seem like home; the idea of pursuing
my travels to the Celestial City was almost obliterated from my
mind. I was reminded of it, however, by the sight of the same
pair of simple pilgrims at whom we had laughed so heartily, when
Apollyon puffed smoke and steam into their faces, at the commencement
of our journey. There they stood amid the densest
bustle of Vanity—the dealers offering them their purple, and fine
linen, and jewels; the men of wit and humor gibing at them; a
pair of buxom ladies ogling them askance; while the benevolent
Mr. Smooth-it-away whispered some of his wisdom at their elbows,
and pointed to a newly-erected temple,—but there were these
worthy simpletons, making the scene look wild and monstrous,
pleasures.
One of them—his name was Stick-to-the-right—perceived in
my face, I suppose, a species of sympathy and almost admiration,
which, to my own great surprise, I could not help feeling for this
pragmatic couple. It prompted him to address me.
“Sir,” inquired he, with a sad, yet mild and kindly voice, “do
you call yourself a pilgrim?”
“Yes,” I replied, “my right to that appellation is indubitable.
I am merely a sojourner here in Vanity Fair, being bound to the
Celestial City by the new railroad.”
“Alas, friend,” rejoined Mr. Stick-to-the-right, “I do assure
you, and beseech you to receive the truth of my words, that that
whole concern is a bubble. You may travel on it all your lifetime,
were you to live thousands of years, and yet never get
beyond the limits of Vanity Fair! Yea; though you should
deem yourself entering the gates of the Blessed City, it will be
nothing but a miserable delusion.”
“The Lord of the Celestial City,” began the other pilgrim,
whose name was Mr. Foot-it-to-Heaven, “has refused, and will
ever refuse, to grant an act of incorporation for this railroad; and
unless that be obtained, no passenger can ever hope to enter his
dominions. Wherefore, every man, who buys a ticket, must lay
his account with losing the purchase-money—which is the value
of his own soul.”
“Poh, nonsense!” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, taking my arm
and leading me off, “these fellows ought to be indicted for a libel.
If the law stood as it once did in Vanity Fair, we should see
them grinning through the iron bars of the prison window.”
This incident made a considerable impression on my mind, and
contributed with other circumstances to indispose me to a permanent
residence in the city of Vanity; although, of course, I was
not simple enough to give up my original plan of gliding along
be gone. There was one strange thing that troubled me; amid
the occupations or amusements of the fair, nothing was more
common than for a person—whether at a feast, theatre, or church,
or trafficking for wealth and honors, or whatever he might be
doing, and however unseasonable the interruption—suddenly to
vanish like a soap-bubble, and be never more seen of his fellows;
and so accustomed were the latter to such little accidents, that
they went on with their business, as quietly as if nothing had
happened. But it was otherwise with me.
Finally, after a pretty long residence at the Fair, I resumed
my journey towards the Celestial City, still with Mr. Smooth-it-away
at my side. At a short distance beyond the suburbs of
Vanity, we passed the ancient silver mine, of which Demas was
the first discoverer, and which is now wrought to great advantage,
supplying nearly all the coined currency of the world. A little
further onward was the spot where Lot's wife had stood for ages,
under the semblance of a pillar of salt. Curious travellers have
long since carried it away piecemeal. Had all regrets been
punished as rigorously as this poor dame's were, my yearning for
the relinquished delights of Vanity Fair might have produced a
similar change in my own corporeal substance, and left me a
warning to future pilgrims.
The next remarkable object was a large edifice, constructed of
moss-grown stone, but in a modern and airy style of architecture.
The engine came to a pause in its vicinity with the usual tremendous
shriek.
“This was formerly the castle of the redoubted giant Despair,”
observed Mr. Smooth-it-away; “but, since his death, Mr. Flimsy-faith
has repaired it, and now keeps an excellent house of entertainment
here. It is one of our stopping-places.”
“It seems but slightly put together,” remarked I, looking at the
frail, yet ponderous walls. “I do not envy Mr. Flimsy-faith his
the occupants.”
“We shall escape, at all events,” said Mr. Smooth-it-away;
“for Apollyon is putting on the steam again.”
The road now plunged into a gorge of the Delectable Mountains,
and traversed the field where, in former ages, the blind
men wandered and stumbled among the tombs. One of these
ancient tomb-stones had been thrust across the track, by some
malicious person, and gave the train of cars a terrible jolt. Far
up the rugged side of a mountain, I perceived a rusty iron door,
half overgrown with bushes and creeping plants, but with smoke
issuing from its crevices.
“Is that,” inquired I, “the very door in the hill-side, which
the shepherds assured Christian was a by-way to Hell?”
“That was a joke on the part of the shepherds,” said Mr.
Smooth-it-away, with a smile. “It is neither more nor less than
the door of a cavern, which they use as a smoke-house for the
preparation of mutton hams.”
My recollections of the journey are now, for a little space, dim
and confused, inasmuch as a singular drowsiness here overcame
me, owing to the fact that we were passing over the enchanted
ground, the air of which encourages a disposition to sleep. I
awoke, however, as soon as we crossed the borders of the pleasant
land of Beulah. All the passengers were rubbing their eyes,
comparing watches, and congratulating one another on the prospect
of arriving so seasonably at the journey's end. The sweet
breezes of this happy clime came refreshingly to our nostrils;
we beheld the glimmering gush of silver fountains, overhung by
trees of beautiful foliage and delicious fruit, which were propagated
by grafts from the celestial gardens. Once, as we dashed
onward like a hurricane, there was a flutter of wings, and the
bright appearance of an angel in the air, speeding forth on some
heavenly mission. The engine now announced the close vicinity
which there seemed to be distinguishable every kind of wailing
and woe, and bitter fierceness of wrath, all mixed up with the
wild laughter of a devil or a madman. Throughout our journey,
at every stopping-place, Apollyon had exercised his ingenuity in
screwing the most abominable sounds out of the whistle of the
steam-engine; but in this closing effort he outdid himself, and
created an infernal uproar, which, besides disturbing the peaceful
inhabitants of Beulah, must have sent its discord even through the
celestial gates.
While the horrid clamor was still ringing in our ears, we heard
an exulting strain, as if a thousand instruments of music, with
height, and depth, and sweetness in their tones, at once tender and
triumphant, were struck in unison, to greet the approach of some
illustrious hero, who had fought the good fight and won a glorious
victory, and was come to lay aside his battered arms for ever.
Looking to ascertain what might be the occasion of this glad harmony,
I perceived, on alighting from the cars, that a multitude
of shining ones had assembled on the other side of the river, to
welcome two poor pilgrims, who were just emerging from its
depths. They were the same whom Apollyon and ourselves had
persecuted with taunts and gibes, and scalding steam, at the commencement
of our journey—the same whose unworldly aspect and
impressive words had stirred my conscience, amid the wild revellers
of Vanity Fair.
“How amazingly well those men have got on!” cried I to Mr.
Smooth-it-away. “I wish we were secure of as good a reception.”
“Never fear—never fear!” answered my friend. “Come—
make haste; the ferry-boat will be off directly; and in three
minutes you will be on the other side of the river. No doubt
you will find coaches to carry you up to the city gates.”
A steam ferry-boat, the last improvement on this important
those other disagreeable utterances, which betoken the departure
to be immediate. I hurried on board with the rest of the passengers,
most of whom were in great perturbation; some bawling out
for their baggage; some tearing their hair and exclaiming that
the boat would explode or sink; some already pale with the heaving
of the stream; some gazing affrighted at the ugly aspect of the
steersman; and some still dizzy with the slumberous influences
of the Enchanted Ground. Looking back to the shore, I was
amazed to discern Mr. Smooth-it-away waving his hand in token
of farewell!
“Don't you go over to the Celestial City?” exclaimed I.
“Oh, no!” answered he with a queer smile, and that same disagreeable
contortion of visage which I had remarked in the inhabitants
of the Dark Valley. “Oh, no! I have come thus
far only for the sake of your pleasant company. Good bye!
We shall meet again.”
And then did my excellent friend, Mr. Smooth-it away, laugh
outright; in the midst of which cachinnation, a smoke-wreath
issued from his mouth and nostrils, while a twinkle of lurid flame
darted out of either eye, proving indubitably that his heart was
all of a red blaze. The impudent fiend! To deny the existence
of Tophet, when he felt its fiery tortures raging within his breast!
I rushed to the side of the boat, intending to fling myself on shore.
But the wheels, as they began their revolutions, threw a dash of
spray over me, so cold—so deadly cold, with the chill that will
never leave those waters, until Death be drowned in his own
river—that, with a shiver and a heart-quake, I awoke. Thank
heaven, it was a Dream!
| Mosses from an old manse | |