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 after us but in so strange a phraseology,
that we knew not what 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.
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