so of literary activity, their maxim is, 'Render to Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's, and to God the things which are God's.' Allow to each untrammeled activity. As religionists we must maintain our creed, as worshipers we must perform our devotions. These should satisfy the demands of religion, but in the sphere of literature we may claim and use the utmost freedom. As readers and critics we need not care whether what we read is in opinion Theistic and Christian, on the one hand, or atheistic and Christless on the other; whether in sentiment it is devout and thankful, or Godless and despairing; whether it is reverent and trustful, or scoffing and profane." This device is accepted by some and practiced by more. The sermon on Sunday and the Scripture on the week-day are dutifully attended to; the prayers are said and the songs are sung morning and evening with earnest devoutness; and so religion has her rights. Religion having received its dues literature asserts its claims. Forthwith our favorite authors plunge us into an atmosphere of thought and feeling in which there is neither God, nor Christ, nor thankfulness, nor hope; or perhaps into an atmosphere which is "earthly, sensual, devilish." Such a compromise as it would seem, is a hollow truce, an armed neutrality, giving the amplest opportunity for disguised treachery on the one hand and a compliant surrender on the other. It can satisfy no religionist whose belief is any thing more than a tradition to accept or a symbol to swear by, or whose worship is aught.beyond a superstition or a spectacular display. The man whose religion does not show itself in forming and regulating his taste for books and reading, or which allows a practical libertinism in this regard, might as well dispense with it altogether. He can hardly be said to have any religion "worth the speaking of."

It is in these forms that the question of the religious relations of books and reading presents itself at the present

day. Religion on the one hand urges its authority, and this authority knows no compromise. On the other hand, literature rightfully asserts its freedom, shows that this freedom has the sanction of Christianity itself, and has most efficiently served Christianity by making it tolerant and humane. "I would not read Shelley's Queen Mab, because it is atheistic," said one college friend to another. "Why not read Shelley," replied the other, "as soon as Lucretius, who is far more deliberately and consistently atheistic; or as soon as Homer or Virgil, those hoary old assertors of 'lords many and gods many?' And yet you not only allow yourself to read these inveterate sinners, but you would steep the minds of the young in the literature of antiquity, pervaded as it is with the exploded orthodoxies of the past." Again, it is asked, "Why not read the modern Emerson, because some say that he teaches a subtle Pantheism, as freely as you read the ancient Plotinus, to whom he refers so often, and with a deference so profound; or as you read those Indian sages, from whom he quotes a striking line now and then, with the intimation that should he tell us all they have written, Jesus and His teachings might be greatly cast into the shade, and perhaps lose much of that public confidence with which they have hitherto been favored?" "Or why is it worse for a Christian family to be amused by the clever caricatures of Holmes than it is to read and laugh at the lampoons of Lucian, inasmuch as both are directed against the same object, the current Christian orthodoxies of the nineteenth and second centuries ?"

Questions like these are not unfrequently asked, and it is not always easy to answer them. It is safe to say, that whoever the author may be, whether he be Shelley or Lucretius, Emerson or Plotinus, Holmes or Lucian, if he shakes your well-established confidence in God, or leads you to disown the name that is above every name; or if he

disturbs the serenity or fervor of your Christian devotions, then he is not an author whom you should read. If he does not exercise this influence over you, if he casts upon you no spell or blight of evil, you may admire his genius and rejoice in its products, while you are amazed at his presumption and pity his blindness to the light which to you is so cheerful and satisfying. As between the ancient and modern Pantheists and anti-Christians, one difference, however, deserves to be noticed. The older writers represent principles and modes of thinking that are more or less effete. Their arguments and images have little force with the present generation, occupied as it is with modern thought and animated by the modern spirit. Their modern followers invest their opinions with the dignity of present science, and make them glow with the interest of current thought, as well as breathe the warmth of men who have the ear and the sympathy of the present generation. The philosopher of ancient times protests against degrading and childish superstitions, and, by contrast, finds an advantage for his deification of nature and his serene and self-relying resignation to fate. The modern rejects the personal care and scorns the personal sympathy of an Infinite Father. The ancient stands with his eye to the east peering-sometimes wistfully-after the faint indications of the dawning twilight; himself a dark and cold shadow against the breaking light of the, as yet, unrisen sun. The modern looks westward with his back proudly turned on its risen splendor, amid a world that from every object reflects its pervading light; himself suffused with that light and glowing with the attractions which it gives, but denying that it proceeds from the sun or that the sun is risen and shines. The Atheist or Pantheist of antiquity is a cold spectre, shivering in the chill morning. His imitator of the nineteenth century, rejoices in the strength and

glows with the beauty of the high noon of the Christian day. While his power to attract and move the men of his time gives plausibility and currency to the little argument which he employs, these very attractions are its most efficient refutation, because they are all derived from the Christian Faith or the civilization which has flowered from its roots.

CHAPTER X.

A CHRISTIAN LITERATURE-HOW CONCEIVED AND DE

FINED.

THESE several inquiries and arguments-these marchings and counter-marchings of thought which we have taken,—--force upon us the more general inquiry: Is there anything which can properly be called a Christian literature? If so, what is it? How can it be defined so as to secure, on the one hand, the essential freedom which literature imperatively requires, and on the other, the deference to Christianity which Christianity uncompromisingly exacts? How far can we be tolerant of every variety of sentiment and opinion and yet be just to our allegiance to the great Master of our faith, and indeed, of modern literature?

These questions are very much vexed in modern thinking, and the answers to them are also vexatious to many who strive to adjust the claims of culture and of Christian feeling. They cannot be answered without considering what is the correct conception of literature, as well as what must be taken as essential to Christianity so far as it should be recognized in literature. In respect to both these points, the views of many are diverse and unsettled. Hence the term Christian literature is used by different men in senses which are exceedingly vague, and often plainly contradictory. We shall best explain our own meaning by asking first, What a Christian literature is not, and second, What it is?

A Christian literature is not necessarily Theological in