rewritten in much of its phraseology, because he deemed the original too rude for usefulness.  In our own day, one of the highest authorities as to the graces and powers of our language, the English statesman and scholar, T. B. Macaulay, has pronounced upon that style, which Gilpin by implication so disparaged, the most glowing eulogies.  Schools and leisure and wealth are useful, but they are not indispensable either to felicity or to honor.  Bunyan lacked them all; and yet in the absence of them achieved greatness —­and what is far better, wide and enduring usefulness.  No man, with God’s exhaustless Scriptures in his hands, and with the rich book of nature and providence open in its pictured radiance before his eyes, needs to have either a dwindling or an impoverished soul.  Of that latter volume, the works of God, as of that former, the word of God, Bunyan was evidently a delighted and unwearied student.  His references to birds and insects, flowers and running brooks and evening clouds, and forests and mountains, all show a man whose nature was genially awake to the harmony and beauty of the material world that lay in order and splendor around him.  It was, in Bunyan, no mere mimicry caught from books and companions—­the echo of any fashion of his times.  He writes of what he had seen with his own eyes; and seems to avoid aiming at aught beyond that.  Hence to the ocean, which probably he never thus saw—­and which had he beheld it in its placid vastness, or in its stormy wrath, he could not well have forgotten—­his writings contain, as far as we remember, no allusions, in all the varied and exuberant imagery which they employ.  His books, more than those of his more learned contemporaries, Richard Baxter, and John Owen, that “mighty armor-bearer of the truth,” as Bunyan happily calls him, were written exclusively from the resources of his own personal observation.  And, in consequence of this, they have the freshness and odors of the outer world pervading them—­scents and sounds of the highways along which, in the trampings of his trade, he had plodded, and of the hedges that had shaded him.  To use the language of the patriarch’s benediction, they have “The smell of A field which the lord hath blessed.”  His books are, like Walton’s Angler, of the open air, and the purling streams.  You catch, back of the good man’s Bible, as he reverently ponders and commends it, glimpses of rural landscapes, and of open skies—­God’s beautiful world, still lovely, even though sin has marred it.  Like the Sermon on the Mount, Bunyan’s page has the traits of field-preaching.  And it was so, also, in his references to the inner world of his own heart.  He wrote not from the dried specimens of earlier collectors—­from the shrivelled and rustling leaves of some old herbary—­from the philosophy and metaphysical analysis of other men’s emotions, so much as from the glowing records of his own consciousness and experience, the