RELIGION IN FICTION.

Otago Witness, Issue 2456, 10 April 1901, Page 69

RELIGION IN FICTION.

(By C. M.)

"The Gates Ajar"' series of books which created so much interest some years ago may be said to have begun this intermingling of the spiritual and matenal world. They were written for the simple-minded, healthy -bodied, religious people -who were distressed to find that they had not any desire for a heaven of unfamiliar and indefinite joys ; so the novelist of the day strove to materialise without vulgarising Heaven, as now writers attempt to ethereahse the earth, as in such tales as the much-talked-of "Looking Backward." At first the novelist moved carefully among the spiritual worlds as one who trends unknown and perhaps forbidden ground. Afterwards he, — or more generally she — tramped fearlessly in the courts of Heaven, and told of things that were there. Who does not remember "The Little Pilgrim," by Mrs Oliphant, written front the writer's heart, yet not quite reaching the hearts of the readers? A later school of novelists arose, and, not content with taking themselves in imagination to Heaven, proceeded to bring angels and still more divine personages— or the reverse — to earth.

The Marie Corelli school of literature, which thus unites religion to sensationalism is not' one to be altogether admired. Sometimes without intending it, the writer is absolutely blasphemous. In a new novel, "The Second Coming," by a not very •wellknown author, the writer depicts our Saviour without either dignity or grace. He attempts to show His divine wrath, and, — without irreverence, be it said — he only manages to show Him as pettish and small-minded in the extreme. Marie Corelli's "Sorrows of Satan " has led to numerous imitations where gentlemen of the names of Satan and Death figure as the heroes. To those of deeply religious feelings it seems that such paltering with evil by impersonating the originators as interesting and fascinating personages cannot fail to mislead a certain class of mind. "Yolande, the Parisienne," by Lucas Cleeves, is a book of this type. Take, for instance, this description, as given by the Marquis Val Ombra — otherwise Death : "Who is that?" I asked, for the man's personality had struck me. "The Devil," answered Death, laughing — "in other words, the most cultivated and the most dissipated man, not in Europe, but in the world. Ask me who is the greatest artist in the world? It is he. The greatest writer, the finest fencer, the boldest rider? It is he, always he. There is no man like him, none so corrupt ; but, my dear friend, there is no time to look at one's friends' morals in these days. One is in favour of any one who is not grotesquely rude or a fool." The story of Yolande is of a demi mondaine who commits suicide in view of the lover who has ceased to> care for her, and he is compelled to go in search, of her lost eouL He is able to do this, as owing to the fact that he has very mixed blood in his veins— Gipsy, Jewish, Irish, and Scotch — he is as much at home on the astral plane as on earth. There are many interesting personages, especially Death, who is represented as a sensible, reasonable kind of spirit, with very good views on ordinary topics , and some epigrammatic force, as, for instance, when he says, "What is the good of giving freedom to women? It is merely giving them the knowledge that they are not free." Books of this modern type have always the' same peculiarity : while absurd, even stupidly absurd in plot, they are often clever in expression, full of wit of the more cynical sort, while not unfrequently some practical idea is introduced into the tale. Thus in "Yolande,"' one of the characters propounds a new scheme for aiding the poor. They have in Italy a society called "I Frato della Misericordia. " It is a beautiful society. It is composed of men of wealth and position of all classes, who hold themselves in readiness afc any hour to visit the sick, the wounded, the poor, the wretched. They are masked, so that no one shall know who they are. Fancy a great brotherhood and sisterhood living in the midst of the world, yet always ready to help, and none knowing that the other -belonged to it. A woman may be starting for a party, ready for a ball, and the message may come, and in a moment she must change her dress, don her long cloak and mask, and follow, follow without knowing whither she is going or to whom, or for how long. A young man is gambling at a club, a message comes, he is called out, he vanishes. How exactly such a thing would meet the requirements of the age, the love of excitement, the blending of philanthropy with the demands of social existence. How intensely salutary would be this waiting expectancy, this sudden swooping down on to the heart of sorrow from the very pinnacles of satiety.