alled, are the
horrible, ghastly unrealities of carnal thought, without any basis of
the divine Christ-principle. I know, we are told that the great books
of the world are those which preserve and interpret its life. Alas! is
it true greatness to detail, over and over again in endless recital,
the carnal motives of the human mind, its passions and errors, its
awful mesmerism, its final doom? Yes, perhaps, on one condition: that,
like a true critic, you picture human concepts only to show their
unreality, their nothingness, and to show how they may be overcome."

"But most books--"

"Ah, yes, most books are written only to amuse the dispirited human
mind for a brief hour, to make it forget for a moment its troubles.
They are literary narcotics; they are sops to jaded appetites, that's
all. A book, for example, that pictures an injured man discovering a
great treasure, and then using it to carry out his schemes of
revenge--well, what influence for good has such a work? It is only a
stimulus to evil, Sidney. But had it shown him using that great wealth
to bless his persecutors and turn them from their mesmerism to real
life and good--"

"Such things don't happen in this world, Carmen."

"But they could, and should, Sidney dear. And they will, some day.
Then will come the new literature, the literature of _good_! And it
will make people think, rather than relieve them from the ennui of
solid thought, as our present novels do. The intellectual palate then
will find only insipidity in such books as pour from our presses now.
The ability to converse glibly about authors who wallow in human
unrealities will then no longer be considered the hall-mark of
culture. Culture in that day will be conformity to truth."

The lad smiled at the enthusiastic girl. "Little sister," he said,
"you are a beautiful idealist."

"But," came her quick reply, "are you not a living illustration of the
practicability of my idealism, Sidney?"

The boy choked, and tears filled his eyes. Carmen stole an arm about
him. "The most practical man who ever lived, Sidney dear, was Jesus.
And he was the greatest idealist. He had ideas that differed very
radically from other people's, but he did not hide them for fear of
giving offense. He was not afraid to shock people with the truth about
themselves. He tore down, yes; but he then reconstructed, and on a
foundation of demonstrable truth. He was not afraid to defy the
Rabbis, the learned, and the puffed