discuss his doctrinal position, or to tell me what religious denomination he belongs to. I ask him to tell me a story of life as it is, seen from the point of view of one who has caught from Christianity a conception of life as it ought to be. I do not ask him even to deal out poetic justice to all his characters, and shut the prison doors on the bad people while he rings the wedding bells for the good. I ask him only to show me good as good and evil as evil; to quicken my love for those who do their best, and deepen my scorn for those who do their worst; to give me a warmer sympathy for all sorts and conditions of men who are sincere and loyal and kind; to strengthen my faith that life is worth living even while he helps me to real

ize how hard it is to live well; to leave me my optimism, but not to leave it stone blind; not to depress me with cheap cynicism nor to lull me with spurious sentimentalism, but to nourish and confirm my heart with Sir Walter Scott's manly faith that "to every duty performed there is attached an inward. satisfaction which deepens with the difficulty of the task and is its best reward."

The use of fiction either to defend or to attack some definite theological dogma seems to me illegitimate and absurb. I remember a devout and earnest brother who begged me to write a story to prove that Presbyterians never held the doctrine of infant damnation. I would as soon write a story to prove the binomial theorem. But that fiction

may serve a noble purpose in renewing our attraction to virtue, in sharpening our abhorrence of selfishness and falsehood, in adding to the good report of the things that are pure and lovely, in showing that heroism is something better than eccentricity tinged with vice, and, at its deepest, in making us feel anew our own need of a Divine forgiveness for our faults and a Divine Master to control our lives-this is true beyond a doubt; for precisely that is what our best fiction, from "Waverley" down to "The Bonnie Brier Bush" and "Sentimental Tommy," has been doing. Name half a dozen of the great English novels at random-"Henry Esmond," "David Copperfield," "The Cloister and the Hearth," "Lorna Doone," "Romola," "The Scarlet Letter"-and who shall dare to deny that there is in these books an atmosphere which breathes of the vital truths and the brightest ideals of Christianity?

It must be admitted that there is a great mass of printed books, fearfully current at present, of which this cannot be said. Some of them breathe of patchouli and musk, some of stale beer and cigarettes, some of the gutter and the pesthouse; many do not breathe at all. The presses of England and America are turning out, for every day in the year, about six new works of fiction, most of them works of affliction. It is a deplorable waste of time and labor, to say nothing of brains. But I do not see in it any great or pressing danger. The chemists tell us that the paper on which these books are printed will not last twenty years. It will not need to last so long, for the vast majority of the books will be forgotten before their leaves disintegrate. Superficial, feeble, fatuous, inane, they pass into oblivion; and the literature which emerges and

abides is that which recognizes the moral conflict as the supremest interest of life, and the message of Christianity as the only real promise of victory. There are three mischievous and perilous tendencies in our modern world against which the spirit of Christianity, embodied in a sane and virile and lovable literature, can do much to guard us.

The first is the growing idolatry of military glory and conquest. It is one thing to admit that there are certain causes for which a Christian may lawfully take the sword. It is another thing to claim, as some do, that war in itself is better for a nation than peace, and to look chiefly to mighty armaments on land and sea as the great instruments for the spread of civilization and Christianity. The forerunner of Christ was not Samson, but John the Baptist. The kingdom of Heaven cometh not with observation, nor with acquisition, nor with subjugation. If all the territory of the globe were subject to one conquering emperor to-day, no matter though the Cross was blazoned on his banner and his throne, the kingdom of Heaven would be no wit nearer. "Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, saith the Lord." That is the message of Christianity. A literature that is Christian must exalt love not only as the greatest but as the strongest thing in the world. It must hold fast the truth bravely spoken by one of America's foremost soldiers, General Sherman, that "war is hell." It must check and reprove the lust of conquest and the confidence of brute force. It must firmly vindicate and commend righteousness and fair-dealing and kindness and the simple proclamation of the truth as the means by which alone a better age can be brought nigh and all the tribes of earth taught to dwell together in peace.

It must repeat Wordsworth's fine message:

"By the soul

Only the nations shall be great and free."

The second perilous tendency is the growing idolatry of wealth. Money is condensed power. But it is condensed in a form which renders it frightfully apt to canker and corrupt. A noble literature, truly in harmony with the spirit of Christ, will reiterate in a hundred forms of beauty and power His teaching

that "a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." It will expose with splendid scorn and ridicule the falsehood of the standard by which the world, and too often the Church, measure what a man is worth by his wealth. It will praise and glorify simple manhood and womanhood, "plain living and high thinking." It will teach that true success is the triumph of character, and that true riches. are of the heart.

The third and perilous tendency is the growing spirit of frivolity. A brilliant British essayist in his life of Robert Browning has just said that the Nineteenth Century has already become incomprehensible to us because it took life. so seriously. This was probably not intended as a compliment; but if the Nineteenth Century could hear the criticism it would have good reason to feel flattered. An age that does not take life seriously will get little out of it. One of the greatest services that Christianity can render to current literature is to inspire it with a nobler ambition and lift it to a higher level. I remember an old woodsman in the Adirondack forest who used to say that he wanted to go to the top of a certain mountain as often as his legs would carry him, because it gave him such a feeling of "heaven-uphistedness." That is an uncouth, hum

ble, eloquent phrase to describe the function of a great literature.

"Unless above himself he can

Erect himself, how mean a thing is man!"

I want the books that help me out of the vacancy and despair of a frivolous mind, out of the tangle and confusion of a society that is busied in bric-a-brac, out of the meanness of unfeeling mockery and the heaviness of incessant mirth, into a loftier and serener region, where through the clear air of serious thoughts I can learn to look soberly and bravely upon the mingled misery and splendor of human existence, and then go down with a cheerful courage to play a man's part in the life which Christ has forever ennobled by His Divine presence.

THE BISHOP OF CANTERBERRYKIND OFFER

The Archbishop of Canterbury has written letters to Principal Rainy and the Rev. Murdo Macqueen, Moderator of the Free Church, proposing to take part in promoting a solution of the present difficulty "which would be honorable to both parties and conducive to the advancement of the best interests of Scottish life." The Archbishop says: "If when the time for necessary action draws near it were to be found that I, as a Scotchman and an independent student of these particular questions, could render any service whatever, pray regard me as being gladly and even gratefully ready to co-operate. I am further able to say that I have ascertained that one or two of the most comp.tent and clear-headed of our public men would be happy to add their assistance if it were felt to be desirable." The Archbishop's letter does him infinite credit. It is in every way worthy of his high position, and is manifestly inspired by the highest Christian feeling. The great gathering of the representatives of the U. F. Church at Inverness, on August 16, was a key to the situation. Rousing speeches were made, which gave no uncertain sound of the courage and determination of U. F. churches. Spiritual independence and the union must be maintained. Dr. Rainy was greatly applauded and cheered.

Mr. Houston, who has been preaching in the evangelistic tent at West Fifty-seventh street, New York, during a part of August, has endeared himself to all who have had the privilege of knowing him. He has a remarkably fine voice, and his gospel singing adds. greatly to the effectiveness of his work. We are glad to be able to give a sketch of his life, in his own words, which he has written at the request of a friend. As he is to continue his work at the tent during the early part of September, we hope that many of our readers will avail themselves of the opportunity of hearing him.

"I was born February 11th, 1861, in Greenock, Scotland, within stain's thraw a' the burial place o' Burns's Highland Mary. I was brought up in the good old way by pious parents. At twelve I was sent to a boarding school in England. I graduated from that school at fifteen, and joined myself to the trade of a carpenter, with a hope to become an architect. At seventeen I lost my sight, instantaneously and permanently, by a stick flying up from a circular saw which I was operating and struck me with a terrific force in the eyes. The thought that God did not prevent such an accident embittered me against Him, and my feelings of hatred were intense for two years. My feelings, however, underwent a change when, at nineteen, light from the eternal world burst in

upon my spiritual eyesight in an open field one Sabbath A. M. in answer to my prayer to be saved, as the result of a sermon I heard on Blind Bartimeaus. Soon after losing my sight I became an inmate of the blind asylum or institution in Dublin, where I remained two years, and received the education given to the blind and was taught to make all kinds of baskets for a living. This I acquired in two years, and returned to my home and set up in the business, and was as happy as I could be without religion, to think I could support myself and be independent of charity or living on my parents. It was soon after my return home I was converted, and in addition to joining the church I became a member of the Y. M. C. A., who found an opportunity for the development of his talents. Here I found a great deal of evangelistic work to do, and afterward was induced to give all my time to it, and went out under the auspices of the Y. M. C. A. and the Evangelist Society. While pursuing this work I made the acquaintance of a merchant prince from Australia, who was very religious, and induced me to return with him to that country, where I labored for one year. When I returned from Australia I came out here with my parents, who soon afterward died. I was made acquainted with the Rev. George J. Mingins, then pastor of the 35th Street Presbyterian Church, who employed me as an evangelist, and used me in his church and sent me down the Jersey coast for six months among the Presbyterian churches, strengthening the things that remained.' I was then sent to Jersey City, where I conducted meetings for five weeks in the Scotch Presbyterian Church, and where I met the late George R. Mac Kenzie, of Inverness, Scotland. Mr. M. was at that time president of the Singer Sew