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 shocked the other day because I said, when speaking of the two books, that, as a work of fiction, Pilgrim's Progress greatly excelled. She started and exclaimed, 'You don't call that a novel do you?' I laughed, and said, 'Why, what is there so dreadful about that to make you look so frightened? I never thought of calling it a novel, but, come to think of it, why isn't it a religious novel. It is certainly a work of fiction, and so far as an approach to facts is concerned, there is much more of plausibility in the shipwreck of Crusoe on a desolate island, than in the hobgoblin adventures of Christian.' She has been shy of me ever since. What say you father?"

"In the common acceptation of the term, Pilgrim's Progress would hardly be called a novel, although literally it may be proper enough. It is rather a delineation of the spiritual pilgrimage, and as a work of genius, stands unrivalled, not merely for its combination of talent, but also for its adaptation to all ranks and every condition in life, exclusive of no sect or creed."

"So you think father, that it should not be classed with Robinson Crusoe."

"I do not think it will suffer from contamination. I was not comparing the merits of the two, only speaking of their different characters. The other, you know, is not strictly spiritual, but comprises also physical enjoyments and privations, representing outward and material life with the inner, whereas the first represents only the inner."

"So much the more sensible then, for we cannot separate the inner from the outward life on this