We know that religious
tales have been written by persons of eminent piety, and with the best of
motives. We have even heard that real spiritual benefit has been obtained
by the perusal of them. But allowing all this to be true, there is still
room for the question, what is the tendency of such productions?
There is a general
objection to common novels, that they give false views of the world; and
the same thing may be said of all works of fiction. The sketches of
Christian character contained in these religious tales, have no
counterpart among living Christians.
It seems, indeed, essential
to the nature of fiction, that everything should be overdone. Truth stamps
a worth upon other productions, which must be made up here by something
else. The volumes of Hume or Robertson are held in estimation as
histories; but they would make but a sorry figure as novels.
Now, if this be true, here
is the very serious evil in the works we are considering. Truth is
wanting, and the judgment cannot be interested. To make up for this, the
fancy must be entertained; and this is generally effected by over-wrought
descriptions, and unlikely coincidences. What must be the effect of this
on the mind of an unbeliever? He reads the lovely description, and he
admires the picture. He turns to the world of reality around him, and sees
nothing like it. And the too plausible conclusion is, "Well, if this be
Christianity, these people, after all, are not what they pretend to be."
Equally pernicious must be
the influence of this ideal perfection of Christian character, on the mind
of a young disciple. He who has formed his notions of Christian society
from the New Testament, will be prepared for the trials he may meet with,
in his intercourse with Christian brethren, and in his fellowship with a
Christian Church. He will lament that good men should differ in some of
their opinions; and that sometimes there should spring from this, debates
and strifes that are most unseemly. But he will not be stumbled by it; for
he has read of a "contention so sharp" between two most eminent
evangelists, that it caused their separation. He will be grieved that the
love of many should wax cold; but he will be prepared to expect it. It
will distress him much, if the faith of some be overthrown, who seemed to
be the people of God. Still he will not be stumbled. He knows that there
were similar declensions even among the first disciples, who professed the
name of Jesus, at the peril of their lives. And in the midst of all these
discouragments he will be sustained by the consideration, "Nevertheless,
the foundation of God standeth sure."
Not so he who has
overlooked the salutary lessons of these instructive facts, and has
gathered his ideas of the religious world from the pages of some
interesting fiction. When he comes in contact with realities, the
beautiful vision that delighted him must vanish. Disappointments and
discouragements will come thick upon him. His zeal must be damped, and his
ardour quenched, and in all human probability his faith will be shaken.
It is a still stronger
objection to works of fiction, that they place their reader in an ideal
world, where he can enjoy the luxury of tender or sublime emotions,
without undergoing the toil and the self-denial, which are inseparable
from the conduct that usually produces such feelings. He forgets his own
character, and identifies himself with the hero of the story. And if he
but succeed in supposing the generous or benevolent deeds of this
character to be his own; he succeeds to a certain degree in actually
appropriating to himself the feelings which spring from such actions.
It is a strange paradox
that men of the basest and most grovelling characters can sympathize with
such feelings. It is strange, indeed, that a man who can be ravished with
the beauties of nature should be capable of turning from the elevating
contemplation of the work of God to the gratification of his grossest
appetites. And yet such characters are to be found. The lives of some of
our most illustrious poets furnish us with too conspicuous examples. The
readers of fiction present us with a similar paradox; and the explanation
in both cases is the same. The poet, in phrensy, forgets for a while the
real world, and forgets his own real character, and so does the reader of
fiction, though in a less degree. The only difference is, that the
novelist does for his reader what the poet does for himself. The truth is,
that the class of feelings to which we allude, are highly productive of
pleasure; and no wonder that even the vicious love to indulge in them,
when they can do so at a cheaper price than virtue. In a region of fancy
such emotions can be cheaply purchased, and hence the universal charm of
novels. Even the miser can dissolve in tenderness over a tale of
suffering, when he knows that his gold is safe. And the narrowest spirit
can dilate with generosity, if self interest be not at stake. And finally,
the most degraded profligate can admire and sympathize with virtue, if his
vicious passions may still be gratified. Let any one who wishes for an
exemplification of these remarks, read Rousseau’s Eulogium on the
character of Jesus Christ.
These general remarks, we
think, are quite applicable to the religious novels of the day. We have
not alluded to the pernicious principles contained in common novels: our
observations have a regard to those qualities alone that are common to all
works of fiction. Now it is indeed a serious evil, if by the process we
have described, those delightful emotions which attend the deeds of
philanthropy, can be stolen without paying their fair price in
benevolent actions. But it is an evil more serious still, if, in this way,
we can work ourselves into a state of sentimental excitement, and mistake
this for that hallowed ecstasy which the faith of the gospel can alone
afford. A mistake here is fatal, and we cannot help thinking that the
class of publications we refer to make such a mistake easy. If an unknown
author may be allowed to refer to his own experience, he can well remember
perusing with intense delight, the fascinating pages of "No Fiction," and
giving the sympathy of his tears to some of its affecting passages, when
his whole soul was in direct opposition to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
There are many who look
upon evangelical Christianity as a beautiful system, and who can delight
to contemplate it, so long as it interferes not with them. They
consider an eloquent sermon as a high intellectual treat. If ever they are
offended with the preacher, or his doctrine, it is when conscience
whispers that this may be all a reality, and may have an influence on
their own destinies. The preacher is to them "as a very lovely song of one
that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well upon an instrument." Give
such persons religion dressed up in the form of a fiction, and it is just
the thing they want. The song which charmed them remained in all its
loveliness; and the truth which excited their alarm, is alarming no
longer, when so closely wrapped with what is known to be fictitious.
If we may be allowed to add
a single remark to a discussion already too lengthened, we would observe,
that the style of the inspired writers seems to pronounce tacit
condemnation on these high coloured and overstrained productions. They
have surely adopted the best method of conveying instruction, who had all
resources within their power, and almighty wisdom to direct their choice.
Their method is a recital of naked facts. Here is no
embellishments, no impassioned description, although the facts related are
the most affecting which our earth has witnessed. They wished that the
convictions of their readers should rest on facts, and that their
feelings too should be excited by facts. (We trust we shall not be
misunderstood, as speaking against earnest appeals founded on these
facts.)
The artist or the novelist
may set before our imaginations the circumstances of the Redeemer’s death,
much more impressively than any of the evangelists have done. We may gaze
upon the crucifix and weep; but our tears will not be the tears of
repentance. And our indignation may burn against the persecutors of one so
meek and so benevolent, while we continue more attached than ever to those
sins that nailed the Lord of glory to the tree. It is the simple fact
that the Son of God died for our sins, — as that fact illustrates the
divine character, — which can make us abhor the sin we gloried in, and
gladly suffer for the truth we once despised.
While we have so rich a
store of facts, it is surely unwise to resort to fiction. We will venture
to say, that one judicious volume of Christian biography, has been of more
service to the cause of truth, than all the religious tales, or stories,
"founded on fact," that have ever issued from the press.
The following fragment on a
very important subject, appears to have been written about this time. I
deeply regret that it is but a fragment, as from the very happy mode of
illustrating the subject, which belongs to the first part of the paper, it
would, I have no doubt, been a very admirable illustration of the doctrine
had he lived to complete it —
ON THE OMNIPRESENCE AND
OMNISCIENCE OF GOD
When we have offended a
fellow man, and wish to escape his anger, the first thought that occurs,
is to flee from his presence. We know that his observation is limited to
one little spot; and that anywhere else we are safe.
Imagine, however, that such
an individual possessed an active band of emissaries, scattered over a
large extent of territory, with whom he can maintain an easy
communication; or, that he himself is able to move with immense velocity
in whatever direction he may please; and you can see how difficult it
would be to escape from his presence. A well-regulated police will give
some idea of this. Let an offender escape whither he will, a description
of his person, and a warrant to apprehend him, is there before him.
Suppose such a system perfect, and that all its operations are performed,
not by numerous agents, but by one individual, possessed of the power of
moving with the rapidity of lightning if you will, still this would afford
but a poor conception of what is meant by omnipresence.
Flight would no longer be a
means of escape; but concealment might. The eye of man cannot pierce the
darkness, — nor can he guess the design that is formed in secret. And,
however swift his motions, and minute his observations, some lurking place
might still be found, which the most exquisite scrutiny could discover.
The bare possibility of escape would be thus afforded, and that is all.
But there is no such possibility of escape from God. "If we ascend up into
heaven," &c. It is not by any change of place that God meets us wherever
we turn. However difficult may be the conception, he is present
everywhere. He fills heaven and earth with his presence. No wonder that
David exclaimed, on contemplating the omnipresence of the Deity, —"Such
knowledge is too wonderful for me." Psalm cxxxix. 15. If we wish to do
anything in secret, it is the presence of a sentient being that we
dislike; and the more acute and piercing his senses, the more would we
avoid his presence. The mental and moral character of an individual is
also a matter of importance. Thus darkness suspends the power of one of
the human senses. Hence men can commit crime in the dark, which they would
blush to perform in open day. And, in some instances, the presence of the
inferior animals would be a matter of indifference, when the presence of
human beings, especially of one esteemed for his virtues, would be felt as
a most distressing intrusion. Now think of these remarks in their
application to God?
"The darkness and the light
are both alike to him." And, if we speak of a lurking place, behold, "hell
is naked before him, and destruction hath no covering. All things are
naked, and open," &c. And the Almighty Being, of whom these things are
affirmed, is a being of unspotted purity.
Could a human being thus
force himself on our bodily presence at all times, and in all
circumstances, there would yet remain to us one retreat, whose secrets,
without our consent, no human scrutiny might discover. Man may drive us
from every other hiding-place, but he cannot come, unbidden, into the
secret place of the soul. He may mark all our words and actions but our
thoughts; his most keen-sighted penetration fails him there. The torture
may be employed to force the will, and compel us to reveal what is passing
within us. But in some cases of firm hardihood, the tyrant has found even
his tortures ineffectual. There have been minds which refused to bend,
though the body was broken on the torturing wheel. But there is no such
repeal from the all-knowing Deity. It is his high prerogative to know the
thoughts, and to try the views, of the children of men. Think then of that
Almighty Presence, which is with us wherever we go. Think of that
all-seeing eye, which not only can pierce the thickest darkness, and lay
open the most secret hiding place; but which, without the medium of
anything material, can gaze upon the naked soul, and tell the unuttered
thoughts that are rising and passing within us.
There is still another way
in which we may sometimes escape the anger of a fellow-man. If we can but
avoid him for a season, we know that time will erase the remembrance of
the offence, or at least, it will mitigate the fury of his passion. Thus
Esau, who sought to kill his brother Jacob, received him, after the lapse
of years, with cordial affection. But it is not so with God. "He is not a
man, that he should repent."
God is present throughout
space, in the world of mind, as well as the world of matter. He is present
also throughout all duration, throughout time, throughout eternity.
The former was a difficult
conception. This is still more so, and language fails to express it. It
may be an easier way of conceiving the idea, to say, that all the past,
and all the future, are to Him as the present, "Known unto him," &c.
Hebrews iv. 6. It was some such conception that the philosophers had, who
spoke of the Eternal now. Neither matter, nor spirit, nor duration
itself, can remove us from this omnipresent God.
Hitherto we have been labouring to
get some conception of the idea expressed by the term omnipresence.
Let us consider what effect it
should produce on our minds, to know that God is omniscient and
omnipresent.
In the illustration we set
out with, we supposed the case of one endeavouring to escape the anger of
the man whom he had offended. How terrible is the anger of an adversary,
who is omnipresent! On the contrary, how delightful the thought of a
Friend who never leaves us! Now, how do we regard Him who alone possesses
this wondrous attribute? Is God our friend, or do we think of him only as
our enemy? Alas, too many think of him merely as the destroyer of their
pleasures, and the punisher of their sins. They would fain flee from his
presence, but they cannot. The full impression of his omnipresence
would be perfect misery. This they can, in some degree, avoid if not by
escaping from his presence, by banishing Him from their thoughts. The idea
of God is an idea of pain. No wonder, then, if they can command the
direction of their own minds, that we can say concerning them, "God is not
in all their thoughts." But it will not be so always. There are cases in
which conscience, roused by a deed of uncommon atrocity, and ever awake,
has given some impression of an ever-present God. The murderer may flee
from the scenes where he did the horrid deed but they will not leave his
thoughts; asleep or awake, the sword of justice will be seen hanging over
him; and in many cases, he had been known to seek the hand of the avenger,
to try if death would give relief from an existence of unmingled
wretchedness. O what is the misery of those who have lifted up their eyes
in hell! There conscience cannot slumber. There the unwelcome idea of a
God of unrelenting justice, can be banished from the thoughts no longer.